Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (516 page)

“Don’t be so sure of that,” she said, with a flash of mischief, which made her voice sound more melancholy than before.  “I am not so sure myself,” she continued with a curious, vanishing, intonation of despair.  “I don’t know the truth about myself because I never had an opportunity to compare myself to anything in the world.  I have been offered mock adulation, treated with mock reserve or with mock devotion, I have been fawned upon with an appalling earnestness of purpose, I can tell you; but these later honours, my dear, came to me in the shape of a very loyal and very scrupulous gentleman.  For he is all that.  And as a matter of fact I was touched.”

“I know.  Even to tears,” I said provokingly.  But she wasn’t provoked, she only shook her head in negation (which was absurd) and pursued the trend of her spoken thoughts.

“That was yesterday,” she said.  “And yesterday he was extremely correct and very full of extreme self-esteem which expressed itself in the exaggerated delicacy with which he talked.  But I know him in all his moods.  I have known him even playful.  I didn’t listen to him.  I was thinking of something else.  Of things that were neither correct nor playful and that had to be looked at steadily with all the best that was in me.  And that was why, in the end — I cried — yesterday.”

“I saw it yesterday and I had the weakness of being moved by those tears for a time.”

“If you want to make me cry again I warn you you won’t succeed.”

“No, I know.  He has been here to-day and the dry season has set in.”

“Yes, he has been here.  I assure you it was perfectly unexpected.  Yesterday he was railing at the world at large, at me who certainly have not made it, at himself and even at his mother.  All this rather in parrot language, in the words of tradition and morality as understood by the members of that exclusive club to which he belongs.  And yet when I thought that all this, those poor hackneyed words, expressed a sincere passion I could have found in my heart to be sorry for him.  But he ended by telling me that one couldn’t believe a single word I said, or something like that.  You were here then, you heard it yourself.”

“And it cut you to the quick,” I said.  “It made you depart from your dignity to the point of weeping on any shoulder that happened to be there.  And considering that it was some more parrot talk after all (men have been saying that sort of thing to women from the beginning of the world) this sensibility seems to me childish.”

“What perspicacity,” she observed, with an indulgent, mocking smile, then changed her tone.  “Therefore he wasn’t expected to-day when he turned up, whereas you, who were expected, remained subject to the charms of conversation in that studio.  It never occurred to you . . . did it?  No!  What had become of your perspicacity?”

“I tell you I was weary of life,” I said in a passion.

She had another faint smile of a fugitive and unrelated kind as if she had been thinking of far-off things, then roused herself to grave animation.

“He came in full of smiling playfulness.  How well I know that mood!  Such self-command has its beauty; but it’s no great help for a man with such fateful eyes.  I could see he was moved in his correct, restrained way, and in his own way, too, he tried to move me with something that would be very simple.  He told me that ever since we became friends, we two, he had not an hour of continuous sleep, unless perhaps when coming back dead-tired from outpost duty, and that he longed to get back to it and yet hadn’t the courage to tear himself away from here.  He was as simple as that.  He’s a très galant homme of absolute probity, even with himself.  I said to him: The trouble is, Don Juan, that it isn’t love but mistrust that keeps you in torment.  I might have said jealousy, but I didn’t like to use that word.  A parrot would have added that I had given him no right to be jealous.  But I am no parrot.  I recognized the rights of his passion which I could very well see.  He is jealous.  He is not jealous of my past or of the future; but he is jealously mistrustful of me, of what I am, of my very soul.  He believes in a soul in the same way Therese does, as something that can be touched with grace or go to perdition; and he doesn’t want to be damned with me before his own judgment seat.  He is a most noble and loyal gentleman, but I have my own Basque peasant soul and don’t want to think that every time he goes away from my feet — yes, mon cher, on this carpet, look for the marks of scorching — that he goes away feeling tempted to brush the dust off his moral sleeve.  That!  Never!”

With brusque movements she took a cigarette out of the box, held it in her fingers for a moment, then dropped it unconsciously.

“And then, I don’t love him,” she uttered slowly as if speaking to herself and at the same time watching the very quality of that thought.  “I never did.  At first he fascinated me with his fatal aspect and his cold society smiles.  But I have looked into those eyes too often.  There are too many disdains in this aristocratic republican without a home.  His fate may be cruel, but it will always be commonplace.  While he sat there trying in a worldly tone to explain to me the problems, the scruples, of his suffering honour, I could see right into his heart and I was sorry for him.  I was sorry enough for him to feel that if he had suddenly taken me by the throat and strangled me slowly, avec délices, I could forgive him while I choked.  How correct he was!  But bitterness against me peeped out of every second phrase.  At last I raised my hand and said to him, ‘Enough.’  I believe he was shocked by my plebeian abruptness but he was too polite to show it.  His conventions will always stand in the way of his nature.  I told him that everything that had been said and done during the last seven or eight months was inexplicable unless on the assumption that he was in love with me, — and yet in everything there was an implication that he couldn’t forgive me my very existence.  I did ask him whether he didn’t think that it was absurd on his part . . . “

“Didn’t you say that it was exquisitely absurd?” I asked.

“Exquisitely! . . . “ Doña Rita was surprised at my question.  “No.  Why should I say that?”

“It would have reconciled him to your abruptness.  It’s their family expression.  It would have come with a familiar sound and would have been less offensive.”

“Offensive,” Doña Rita repeated earnestly.  “I don’t think he was offended; he suffered in another way, but I didn’t care for that.  It was I that had become offended in the end, without spite, you understand, but past bearing.  I didn’t spare him.  I told him plainly that to want a woman formed in mind and body, mistress of herself, free in her choice, independent in her thoughts; to love her apparently for what she is and at the same time to demand from her the candour and the innocence that could be only a shocking pretence; to know her such as life had made her and at the same time to despise her secretly for every touch with which her life had fashioned her — that was neither generous nor high minded; it was positively frantic.  He got up and went away to lean against the mantelpiece, there, on his elbow and with his head in his hand.  You have no idea of the charm and the distinction of his pose.  I couldn’t help admiring him: the expression, the grace, the fatal suggestion of his immobility.  Oh, yes, I am sensible to aesthetic impressions, I have been educated to believe that there is a soul in them.”

With that enigmatic, under the eyebrows glance fixed on me she laughed her deep contralto laugh without mirth but also without irony, and profoundly moving by the mere purity of the sound.

“I suspect he was never so disgusted and appalled in his life.  His self-command is the most admirable worldly thing I have ever seen.  What made it beautiful was that one could feel in it a tragic suggestion as in a great work of art.”

She paused with an inscrutable smile that a great painter might have put on the face of some symbolic figure for the speculation and wonder of many generations.  I said:

“I always thought that love for you could work great wonders.  And now I am certain.”

“Are you trying to be ironic?” she said sadly and very much as a child might have spoken.

“I don’t know,” I answered in a tone of the same simplicity.  “I find it very difficult to be generous.”

“I, too,” she said with a sort of funny eagerness.  “I didn’t treat him very generously.  Only I didn’t say much more.  I found I didn’t care what I said — and it would have been like throwing insults at a beautiful composition.  He was well inspired not to move.  It has spared him some disagreeable truths and perhaps I would even have said more than the truth.  I am not fair.  I am no more fair than other people.  I would have been harsh.  My very admiration was making me more angry.  It’s ridiculous to say of a man got up in correct tailor clothes, but there was a funereal grace in his attitude so that he might have been reproduced in marble on a monument to some woman in one of those atrocious Campo Santos: the bourgeois conception of an aristocratic mourning lover.  When I came to that conclusion I became glad that I was angry or else I would have laughed right out before him.”

“I have heard a woman say once, a woman of the people — do you hear me, Doña Rita? — therefore deserving your attention, that one should never laugh at love.”

“My dear,” she said gently, “I have been taught to laugh at most things by a man who never laughed himself; but it’s true that he never spoke of love to me, love as a subject that is.  So perhaps . . . But why?”

“Because (but maybe that old woman was crazy), because, she said, there was death in the mockery of love.”

Doña Rita moved slightly her beautiful shoulders and went on:

“I am glad, then, I didn’t laugh.  And I am also glad I said nothing more.  I was feeling so little generous that if I had known something then of his mother’s allusion to ‘white geese’ I would have advised him to get one of them and lead it away on a beautiful blue ribbon.  Mrs. Blunt was wrong, you know, to be so scornful.  A white goose is exactly what her son wants.  But look how badly the world is arranged.  Such white birds cannot be got for nothing and he has not enough money even to buy a ribbon.  Who knows!  Maybe it was this which gave that tragic quality to his pose by the mantelpiece over there.  Yes, that was it.  Though no doubt I didn’t see it then.  As he didn’t offer to move after I had done speaking I became quite unaffectedly sorry and advised him very gently to dismiss me from his mind definitely.  He moved forward then and said to me in his usual voice and with his usual smile that it would have been excellent advice but unfortunately I was one of those women who can’t be dismissed at will.  And as I shook my head he insisted rather darkly: ‘Oh, yes, Doña Rita, it is so.  Cherish no illusions about that fact.’  It sounded so threatening that in my surprise I didn’t even acknowledge his parting bow.  He went out of that false situation like a wounded man retreating after a fight.  No, I have nothing to reproach myself with.  I did nothing.  I led him into nothing.  Whatever illusions have passed through my head I kept my distance, and he was so loyal to what he seemed to think the redeeming proprieties of the situation that he has gone from me for good without so much as kissing the tips of my fingers.  He must have felt like a man who had betrayed himself for nothing.  It’s horrible.  It’s the fault of that enormous fortune of mine, and I wish with all my heart that I could give it to him; for he couldn’t help his hatred of the thing that is: and as to his love, which is just as real, well — could I have rushed away from him to shut myself up in a convent?  Could I?  After all I have a right to my share of daylight.”

CHAPTER V

I took my eyes from her face and became aware that dusk was beginning to steal into the room.  How strange it seemed.  Except for the glazed rotunda part its long walls, divided into narrow panels separated by an order of flat pilasters, presented, depicted on a black background and in vivid colours, slender women with butterfly wings and lean youths with narrow birds’ wings.  The effect was supposed to be Pompeiian and Rita and I had often laughed at the delirious fancy of some enriched shopkeeper.  But still it was a display of fancy, a sign of grace; but at that moment these figures appeared to me weird and intrusive and strangely alive in their attenuated grace of unearthly beings concealing a power to see and hear.

Without words, without gestures, Doña Rita was heard again.  “It may have been as near coming to pass as this.”  She showed me the breadth of her little finger nail.  “Yes, as near as that.  Why?  How?  Just like that, for nothing.  Because it had come up.  Because a wild notion had entered a practical old woman’s head.  Yes.  And the best of it is that I have nothing to complain of.  Had I surrendered I would have been perfectly safe with these two.  It is they or rather he who couldn’t trust me, or rather that something which I express, which I stand for.  Mills would never tell me what it was.  Perhaps he didn’t know exactly himself.  He said it was something like genius.  My genius!  Oh, I am not conscious of it, believe me, I am not conscious of it.  But if I were I wouldn’t pluck it out and cast it away.  I am ashamed of nothing, of nothing!  Don’t be stupid enough to think that I have the slightest regret.  There is no regret.  First of all because I am I — and then because . . . My dear, believe me, I have had a horrible time of it myself lately.”

This seemed to be the last word.  Outwardly quiet, all the time, it was only then that she became composed enough to light an enormous cigarette of the same pattern as those made specially for the king — por el Rey! After a time, tipping the ash into the bowl on her left hand, she asked me in a friendly, almost tender, tone:

“What are you thinking of, amigo?”

“I was thinking of your immense generosity.  You want to give a crown to one man, a fortune to another.  That is very fine.  But I suppose there is a limit to your generosity somewhere.”

“I don’t see why there should be any limit — to fine intentions!  Yes, one would like to pay ransom and be done with it all.”

“That’s the feeling of a captive; and yet somehow I can’t think of you as ever having been anybody’s captive.”