Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (400 page)

“Doubtless . . . “  I began to ponder.

“I was very certain of my conclusions at the time,” Marlow went on impatiently.  “But don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender.  She murmured:

“It’s the last thing I should have thought could happen.”

“You didn’t suppose they were romantic enough,” I suggested dryly.

She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself,

“Roderick really must be warned.”

She didn’t give me the time to ask of what precisely.  She raised her head and addressed me.

“I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne’s resistance.  We have been always completely at one on every question.  And that we should differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a most painful surprise to me.”  Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by an involuntary movement.  “It is intolerable,” she added tempestuously — for Mrs. Fyne that is.  I suppose she had nerves of her own like any other woman.

Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was silence.  I took it for a proof of deep sagacity.  I don’t mean on the part of the dog.  He was a confirmed fool.

I said:

“You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?”  Mrs. Fyne nodded just perceptibly . . . “Well — for my part . . . but I don’t really know how matters stand at the present time.  You have had a letter from Miss de Barral.  What does that letter say?”

“She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address,” Mrs. Fyne uttered reluctantly and stopped.  I waited a bit — then exploded.

“Well!  What’s the matter?  Where’s the difficulty?  Does your husband object to that?  You don’t mean to say that he wants you to appropriate the girl’s clothes?”

“Mr. Marlow!”

“Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, and then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a valise.  And only a few moments ago you reproached me for not being serious.  I wonder who is the serious person of us two now.”

She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once that she did not mean to show me the girl’s letter, she said that undoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony and Flora de Barral.

“What understanding?” I pressed her.  “An engagement is an understanding.”

“There is no engagement — not yet,” she said decisively.  “That letter, Mr. Marlow, is couched in very vague terms.  That is why — ”

I interrupted her without ceremony.

“You still hope to interfere to some purpose.  Isn’t it so?  Yes?  But how should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between you and Mr. Fyne at the time when your understanding with each other could still have been described in vague terms?”

She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation.  It is with the accent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me:

“But it isn’t at all the same thing!  How can you!”

Indeed how could I!  The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their necessity may wear at times a similar aspect.  Amongst these consequences I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and such like, possible causes of embarrassment in the future.

“No!  You can’t be serious,” Mrs. Fyne’s smouldering resentment broke out again.  “You haven’t thought — ”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne!  I have thought.  I am still thinking.  I am even trying to think like you.”

“Mr. Marlow,” she said earnestly.  “Believe me that I really am thinking of my brother in all this . . . “  I assured her that I quite believed she was.  For there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of more than one person at a time.  Then I said:

“She has told him all about herself of course.”

“All about her life,” assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making some mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate.  “Her life!” I repeated.  “That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it.”

“Horrible,” Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable under the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her with a friendly eye.  “Horrible!  No!  You can’t imagine the sort of vulgar people she became dependent on . . . You know her father never attempted to see her while he was still at large.  After his arrest he instructed that relative of his — the odious person who took her away from Brighton — not to let his daughter come to the court during the trial.  He refused to hold any communication with her whatever.”

I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years ago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife’s grave and later on of these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes by the sea.  Pictures from Dickens — pregnant with pathos.

CHAPTER SIX — FLORA

“A very singular prohibition,” remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence.  “He seemed to love the child.”

She was puzzled.  But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness of a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his “persecutors,” as he called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion weakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler — proving the possession of a certain moral delicacy.

Mrs. Fyne didn’t know what to think.  She supposed it might have been mere callousness.  But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had positively not a grain of moral delicacy.  Of that she was certain.  Mrs. Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their abominable vulgarity.  Flora used to tell her something of her life in that household, over there, down Limehouse way.  It was incredible.  It passed Mrs. Fyne’s comprehension.  It was a sort of moral savagery which she could not have thought possible.

I, on the contrary, thought it very possible.  I could imagine easily how the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that household — envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender mercies of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for disdain, her silent shrinking for pride.  The wife of the “odious person” was witless and fatuously conceited.  Of the two girls of the house one was pious and the other a romp; both were coarse-minded — if they may be credited with any mind at all.  The rather numerous men of the family were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose.  None in that grubbing lot had enough humanity to leave her alone.  At first she was made much of, in an offensively patronising manner.  The connection with the great de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash.  They dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble self-satisfaction.  She did not know how to defend herself from their importunities, insolence and exigencies.  She lived amongst them, a passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed.  After the trial her position became still worse.  On the least occasion and even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her dependence.  The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping girl teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some “fellow” or other.  The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, wounding remarks.  I must say they were probably not aware of the ugliness of their conduct.  They were nasty amongst themselves as a matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in the spirit of mean selfishness.  These women, too, seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy pretences.  Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage and despair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness to which common human nature can descend — I won’t say à propos de bottes as the French would excellently put it, but literally à propos of some mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was making for herself.  Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest scenes which, in their repetition, must have had a deplorable effect on the unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral’s victims.  I have it from Mrs. Fyne.  The girl turned up at the Fynes’ house at half-past nine on a cold, drizzly evening.  She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the neighbourhood of Sloane Square — without stopping, without drawing breath, if only for a sob.

“We were having some people to dinner,” said the anxious sister of Captain Anthony.

She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean.  The parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention.  The servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks.  But they had seen her before.  This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last.

Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs.

“I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls.  The eldest was sitting up in bed looking at her across the room.”

Only a nightlight was burning there.  Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her over to Mr. Fyne’s little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there.  She had to go back to her guests.

A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes.  Afterwards they both went up and interviewed the girl.  She jumped up at their entrance.  She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry — with the heat of rage.

I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom.  Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the dressing-room.

“But — what could one do after all!” concluded Mrs. Fyne.

And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as usual, feel more kindly towards her.

Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, the “odious personage” turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but startling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action.  From what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very perceptibly less “odious” than his family he had in a rather mysterious fashion interposed his authority for the protection of the girl.  “Not that he cares,” explained Flora.  “I am sure he does not.  I could not stand being liked by any of these people.  If I thought he liked me I would drown myself rather than go back with him.”

For of course he had come to take “Florrie” home.  The scene was the dining-room — breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne’s toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her place with the girl sitting beside her — the “odious person,” who had bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as though he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and then beginning ironically his discourse.  He did not apologize for disturbing Fyne and his “good lady” at breakfast, because he knew they did not want (with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped.  He came the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to.  He wasn’t drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a luxuriously furnished office.  Not he.  He had risen to be an employer of labour and was bound to give a good example.

I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne.  He turned briskly to the girl.  Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained all three silent and inanimate.  He turned to the girl: “What’s this game, Florrie?  You had better give it up.  If you expect me to run all over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff with your auntie and cousins you are mistaken.  I can’t afford it.”

Tiff — was the sort of definition to take one’s breath away, having regard to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace trimmings.  Yes, these very words!  So at least the girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before.  The word tiff in connection with her tale had a peculiar savour, a paralysing effect.  Nobody made a sound.  The relative of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity.  “Auntie told me to tell you she’s sorry — there!  And Amelia (the romping sister) shan’t worry you again.  I’ll see to that.  You ought to be satisfied.  Remember your position.”

Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery:

“What I say is that people should be good-natured.  She can’t stand being chaffed.  She puts on her grand airs.  She won’t take a bit of a joke from people as good as herself anyway.  We are a plain lot.  We don’t like it.  And that’s how trouble begins.”

Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes.  “Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat.  I’ve got them outside in the cab.”

Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window.  A four-wheeler stood before the gate under the weeping sky.  The driver in his conical cape and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water.  The drooping horse looked as though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond.  Mrs. Fyne found some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the room in which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold.  “Come, Florrie, make a move.  I can’t wait on you all day here.”