Chance by Joseph Conrad (novels to read TXT) 📕

Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a grimly playful ebullition of high spirits.  It must have been most distasteful to him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, I perceived.  There were holes in it through which I could see a new, an unknown Fyne.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” he went on, “but she looks upon her father exclusively as a victim.  I don’t know,” he burst out suddenly through an enormous rent in his solemnity, “if she thinks him absolutely a saint, but she certainly imagines him to be a martyr.”

It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, that you may forget people which are put there as though they were dead.  One needn’t worry about them.  Nothing can happen to them that you can help.  They can do nothing which might possibly matter to anybody.  They come out of it, though, but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves or anyone else.  I had completely forgotten the financier de Barral.  The girl for me was an orphan, but now I perceived suddenly the force of Fyne’s qualifying statement, “to a certain extent.”  It would have been infinitely more kind all round for the law to have shot, beheaded, strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de Barral, who was a danger to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care of itself.  But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was the view she held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account.

“So she thinks of her father—does she?  I suppose she would appear to us saner if she thought only of herself.”

“I am positive,” Fyne said earnestly, “that she went and made desperate eyes at Anthony . . . ”

“Oh come!” I interrupted.  “You haven’t seen her make eyes.  You don’t know the colour of her eyes.”

“Very well!  It don’t matter.  But it could hardly have come to that if she hadn’t . . . It’s all one, though.  I tell you she has led him on, or accepted him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father.  She doesn’t care a bit about Anthony, I believe.  She cares for no one.  Never cared for anyone.  Ask Zoe.  For myself I don’t blame her,” added Fyne, giving me another view of unsuspected things through the rags and tatters of his damaged solemnity.  “No! by heavens, I don’t blame her—the poor devil.”

I agreed with him silently.  I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be learned.  If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be fanned while we are young.  Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined.  But I was surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this.

“She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark,” he pursued venomously, but in a more deliberate manner.  “And Anthony knows it.”

“Does he?” I said doubtfully.

“She’s quite capable of having told him herself,” affirmed Fyne, with amazing insight.  “But whether or no, I’ve told him.”

“You did?  From Mrs. Fyne, of course.”

Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight.

“And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?” I asked further.

“Most improperly,” said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he didn’t mind what he blurted out.  “He isn’t himself.  He begged me to tell his sister that he offered no remarks on her conduct.  Very improper and inconsequent.  He said . . . I was tired of this wrangling.  I told him I made allowances for the state of excitement he was in.”

“You know, Fyne,” I said, “a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, cruel, nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his existence.  Certainly not in relation to any other existences.”

“But dash it all,” cried Fyne, “he isn’t shut up for life.  They are going to let him out.  He’s coming out!  That’s the whole trouble.  What is he coming out to, I want to know?  It seems a more cruel business than the shutting him up was.  This has been the worry for weeks.  Do you see now?”

I saw, all sorts of things!  Immediately before me I saw the excitement of little Fyne—mere food for wonder.  Further off, in a sort of gloom and beyond the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight girlish figure by his side.  And the gloom was like the gloom of villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a starved and degraded existence.  It was a relief that I could see only their shabby hopeless backs.  He was an awful ghost.  But indeed to call him a ghost was only a refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing one’s terror of such things.  Prisons are wonderful contrivances.  Shut—open.  Very neat.  Shut—open.  And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully in a world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it the appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode.  Marvellous arrangement.  It works automatically, and, when you look at it, the perfection makes you sick; which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph.  Sick and scared.  It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death.  Fancy having to take such a thing by the hand!  Now I understood the remorseful strain I had detected in her speeches.

“By Jove!” I said.  “They are about to let him out!  I never thought of that.”

Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large.

“You didn’t suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?”

At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the two streets.  Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in her hat.  She was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or reluctance.  While listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her again.  He was going on with positive heat, the rags of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sentence.

That was just it.  His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it.  Of course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne.  I suppose with her theory of innocence she found it difficult.  But she must have been thinking of it day and night.  What to do with him?  Where to go?  How to keep body and soul together?  He had never made any friends.  The only relations were the atrocious East-end cousins.  We know what they were.  Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust and prejudiced world.  And to look at him helplessly she felt would be too much for her.

I won’t say I was thinking these thoughts.  It was not necessary.  This complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice indignantly.

“I don’t blame the girl,” he was saying.  “He is infatuated with her.  Anybody can see that.  Why she should have got such a hold on him I can’t understand.  She said “Yes” to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling father of hers.  It’s perfectly plain if one thinks it over a moment.  One needn’t even think of it.  We have it under her own hand.  In that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously.  She has owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know.  And so they are to be married before that old idiot comes out . . . He will be surprised,” commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone.  “He shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony.  Very pleasant for Zoe.  And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to turn up dutifully too.  A little family event.  It’s extremely pleasant to think of.  Delightful.  A charming family party.  We three against the world—and all that sort of thing.  And what for.  For a girl that doesn’t care twopence for him.”

The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne.  He amazed me as though he had changed his skin from white to black.  It was quite as wonderful.  And he kept it up, too.

“Luckily there are some advantages in the—the profession of a sailor.  As long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, I don’t mind so much.  I wonder what that interesting old party will say.  He will have another surprise.  They mean to drag him along with them on board the ship straight away.  Rescue work.  Just think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all . . . ”

He gave me a little shock.  I thought he was going to say the “son of the poet” as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now.  His unspoken thought must have gone on “and uncle of my girls.”  I suspect that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits.  Those men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough.  “Just think!” he cried.  “The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!”

The good little man laughed.  An improper sound it was to come from his manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a mere hair’s breadth, he might have taken this affair sentimentally.  But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist.  His brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to use the language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart like a flint.  What Fyne precisely meant by “wrangling” I don’t know, but I had no doubt that these two had “wrangled” to a profoundly disturbing extent.  How much the other was affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was quite amazingly upset.

“In a four-wheeler!  Take him on board!” I muttered, startled by the change in Fyne.

“That’s the plan—nothing less.  If I am to believe what I have been told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates and the deck of that ship.”

The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard without difficulty.  The rumbling, composite noises of the street were hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source.  Having an unobstructed view past Fyne’s shoulder, I was astonished to see that the girl was still there.  I thought she had gone up long before.  But there was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat.  She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting—or as if unconscious of where she was.  The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn’t budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her.  Which was horrible.

Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things—for him.  He declared first it was a mercy in a sense.  Then he asked me if it were not real madness, to saddle one’s existence with such a perpetual reminder.  The daily existence.  The isolated sea-bound existence.  To bring such an additional strain into the solitude already trying enough