Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  What he couldn’t understand was why Mrs. Travers should have put off his natural curiosity as to her latest conference with the Man of Fate by an incredible statement as to the nature of the conversation. Talk about dresses, opera, people’s names. He couldn’t take this seriously. She might have invented, he thought, something more plausible; or simply have told him that this was not for him to know. She ought to have known that he would not have been offended. Couldn’t she have seen already that he accepted the complexion of mystery in her relation to that man completely, unquestionably; as though it had been something preordained from the very beginning of things? But he was not annoyed with Mrs. Travers. After all it might have been true. She would talk exactly as she liked, and even incredibly, if it so pleased her, and make the man hang on her lips. And likewise she was capable of making the man talk about anything by a power of inspiration for reasons simple or perverse. Opera! Dresses! Yes — about Shakespeare and the musical glasses! For a mere whim or for the deepest purpose. Women worthy of the name were like that. They were very wonderful. They rose to the occasion and sometimes above the occasion when things were bound to occur that would be comic or tragic (as it happened) but generally charged with trouble even to innocent beholders. D’Alcacer thought these thoughts without bitterness and even without irony. With his half-secret social reputation as a man of one great passion in a world of mere intrigues he liked all women. He liked them in their sentiment and in their hardness, in the tragic character of their foolish or clever impulses, at which he looked with a sort of tender seriousness.

  He didn’t take a favourable view of the position but he considered Mrs. Travers’ statement about operas and dresses as a warning to keep off the subject. For this reason he remained silent through the meal.

  When the bustle of clearing away the table was over he strolled toward Mrs. Travers and remarked very quietly:

  “I think that in keeping away from us this evening the Man of Fate was well inspired. We dined like a lot of Carthusian monks.”

  “You allude to our silence?”

  “It was most scrupulous. If we had taken an eternal vow we couldn’t have kept it better.”

  “Did you feel bored?”

  “Pas du tout,” d’Alcacer assured her with whimsical gravity. “I felt nothing. I sat in a state of blessed vacuity. I believe I was the happiest of us three. Unless you, too, Mrs. Travers. . . .”

  “It’s absolutely no use your fishing for my thoughts, Mr. d’Alcacer. If I were to let you see them you would be appalled.”

  “Thoughts really are but a shape of feelings. Let me congratulate you on the impassive mask you can put on those horrors you say you nurse in your breast. It was impossible to tell anything by your face.”

  “You will always say flattering things.”

  “Madame, my flatteries come from the very bottom of my heart. I have given up long ago all desire to please. And I was not trying to get at your thoughts. Whatever else you may expect from me you may count on my absolute respect for your privacy. But I suppose with a mask such as you can make for yourself you really don’t care. The Man of Fate, I noticed, is not nearly as good at it as you are.”

  “What a pretentious name. Do you call him by it to his face, Mr. d’Alcacer?”

  “No, I haven’t the cheek,” confessed d’Alcacer, equably. “And, besides, it’s too momentous for daily use. And he is so simple that he might mistake it for a joke and nothing could be further from my thoughts. Mrs. Travers, I will confess to you that I don’t feel jocular in the least. But what can he know about people of our sort? And when I reflect how little people of our sort can know of such a man I am quite content to address him as Captain Lingard. It’s common and soothing and most respectable and satisfactory; for Captain is the most empty of all titles. What is a Captain? Anybody can be a Captain; and for Lingard it’s a name like any other. Whereas what he deserves is something special, significant, and expressive, that would match his person, his simple and romantic person.”

  He perceived that Mrs. Travers was looking at him intently. They hastened to turn their eyes away from each other.

  “He would like your appreciation,” Mrs. Travers let drop negligently.

  “I am afraid he would despise it.”

  “Despise it! Why, that sort of thing is the very breath of his nostrils.”

  “You seem to understand him, Mrs. Travers. Women have a singular capacity for understanding. I mean subjects that interest them; because when their imagination is stimulated they are not afraid of letting it go. A man is more mistrustful of himself, but women are born much more reckless. They push on and on under the protection of secrecy and silence, and the greater the obscurity of what they wish to explore the greater their courage.”

  “Do you mean seriously to tell me that you consider me a creature of darkness?”

  “I spoke in general,” remonstrated d’Alcacer. “Anything else would have been an impertinence. Yes, obscurity is women’s best friend. Their daring loves it; but a sudden flash of light disconcerts them. Generally speaking, if they don’t get exactly at the truth they always manage to come pretty near to it.”

  Mrs. Travers had listened with silent attention and she allowed the silence to continue for some time after d’Alcacer had ceased. When she spoke it was to say in an unconcerned tone that as to this subject she had had special opportunities. Her self-possessed interlocutor managed to repress a movement of real curiosity under an assumption of conventional interest. “Indeed,” he exclaimed, politely. “A special opportunity. How did you manage to create it?”

  This was too much for Mrs. Travers. “I! Create it!” she exclaimed, indignantly, but under her breath. “How on earth do you think I could have done it?”

  Mr. d’Alcacer, as if communing with himself, was heard to murmur unrepentantly that indeed women seldom knew how they had “done it,” to which Mrs. Travers in a weary tone returned the remark that no two men were dense in the same way. To this Mr. d’Alcacer assented without difficulty. “Yes, our brand presents more varieties. This, from a certain point of view, is obviously to our advantage. We interest. . . . Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Travers. But what about the Man of Fate?”

  “Oh, yes,” breathed out Mrs. Travers.

  “I see! Immensely!” said d’Alcacer in a tone of mysterious understanding. “Was his stupidity so colossal?”

  “It was indistinguishable from great visions that were in no sense mean and made up for him a world of his own.”

  “I guessed that much,” muttered d’Alcacer to himself. “But that, you know, Mrs. Travers, that isn’t good news at all to me. World of dreams, eh? That’s very bad, very dangerous. It’s almost fatal, Mrs. Travers.”

  “Why all this dismay? Why do you object to a world of dreams?”

  “Because I dislike the prospect of being made a sacrifice of by those Moors. I am not an optimist like our friend there,” he continued in a low tone nodding toward the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up in the chair. “I don’t regard all this as a farce and I have discovered in myself a strong objection to having my throat cut by those gorgeous barbarians after a lot of fatuous talk. Don’t ask me why, Mrs. Travers. Put it down to an absurd weakness.”

  Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her hands to her head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d’Alcacer saw the mass of her clear gleaming hair fall down and spread itself over her shoulders. She seized half of it in her hands which looked very white, and with her head inclined a little on one side she began to make a plait.

  “You are terrifying,” he said after watching the movement of her fingers for a while.

  “Yes . . . ?” she accentuated interrogatively.

  “You have the awfulness of the predestined. You, too, are the prey of dreams.”

  “Not of the Moors, then,” she uttered, calmly, beginning the other plait. D’Alcacer followed the operation to the end. Close against her, her diaphanous shadow
on the muslin reproduced her slightest movements. D’Alcacer turned his eyes away.

  “No! No barbarian shall touch you. Because if it comes to that I believe he would be capable of killing you himself.”

  A minute elapsed before he stole a glance in her direction. She was leaning back again, her hands had fallen on her lap and her head with a plait of hair on each side of her face, her head incredibly changed in character and suggesting something medieval, ascetic, drooped dreamily on her breast.

  D’Alcacer waited, holding his breath. She didn’t move. In the dim gleam of jewelled clasps, the faint sheen of gold embroideries and the shimmer of silks, she was like a figure in a faded painting. Only her neck appeared dazzlingly white in the smoky redness of the light. D’Alcacer’s wonder approached a feeling of awe. He was on the point of moving away quietly when Mrs. Travers, without stirring in the least, let him hear the words:

  “I have told him that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don’t you see how impossible this is?”

  D’Alcacer glanced rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed to be asleep all in a heap and presenting a ruffled appearance like a sick bird. Nothing was distinct of him but the bald patch on the top of his head.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “it is most unfortunate. . . . I understand your anxiety, Mrs. Travers, but . . .”

  “I am frightened,” she said.

  He reflected a moment. “What answer did you get?” he asked, softly.

  “The answer was: ‘Patience.’“

  D’Alcacer laughed a little. — ”You may well laugh,” murmured Mrs. Travers in a tone of anguish. — ”That’s why I did,” he whispered. “Patience! Didn’t he see the horror of it?” — ”I don’t know. He walked away,” said Mrs. Travers. She looked immovably at her hands clasped in her lap, and then with a burst of distress, “Mr. d’Alcacer, what is going to happen?” — ”Ah, you are asking yourself the question at last. That will happen which cannot be avoided; and perhaps you know best what it is.” — ”No. I am still asking myself what he will do.” — ”Ah, that is not for me to know,” declared d’Alcacer. “I can’t tell you what he will do, but I know what will happen to him.” — ”To him, you say! To him!” she cried. — ”He will break his heart,” said d’Alcacer, distinctly, bending a little over the chair with a slight gasp at his own audacity — and waited.

  “Croyez-vous?” came at last from Mrs. Travers in an accent so coldly languid that d’Alcacer felt a shudder run down his spine.

  Was it possible that she was that kind of woman, he asked himself. Did she see nothing in the world outside herself? Was she above the commonest kind of compassion? He couldn’t suspect Mrs. Travers of stupidity; but she might have been heartless and, like some women of her class, quite unable to recognize any emotion in the world except her own. D’Alcacer was shocked and at the same time he was relieved because he confessed to himself that he had ventured very far. However, in her humanity she was not vulgar enough to be offended. She was not the slave of small meannesses. This thought pleased d’Alcacer who had schooled himself not to expect too much from people. But he didn’t know what to do next. After what he had ventured to say and after the manner in which she had met his audacity the only thing to do was to change the conversation. Mrs. Travers remained perfectly still. “I will pretend that I think she is asleep,” he thought to himself, meditating a retreat on tip-toe.

  He didn’t know that Mrs. Travers was simply trying to recover the full command of her faculties. His words had given her a terrible shock. After managing to utter this defensive “croyez-vous” which came out of her lips cold and faint as if in a last effort of dying strength, she felt herself turn rigid and speechless. She was thinking, stiff all over with emotion: “D’Alcacer has seen it! How much more has he been able to see?” She didn’t ask herself that question in fear or shame but with a reckless resignation. Out of that shock came a sensation of peace. A glowing warmth passed through all her limbs. If d’Alcacer had peered by that smoky light into her face he might have seen on her lips a fatalistic smile come and go. But d’Alcacer would not have dreamed of doing such a thing, and, besides, his attention just then was drawn in another direction. He had heard subdued exclamations, had noticed a stir on the decks of the Emma, and even some sort of noise outside the ship.

  “These are strange sounds,” he said.

  “Yes, I hear,” Mrs. Travers murmured, uneasily.

  Vague shapes glided outside the Cage, barefooted, almost noiseless, whispering Malay words secretly.

  “It seems as though a boat had come alongside,” observed d’Alcacer, lending an attentive ear. “I wonder what it means. In our position. . . .”

  “It may mean anything,” interrupted Mrs. Travers.

  “Jaffir is here,” said a voice in the darkness of the after end of the ship. Then there were some more words in which d’Alcacer’s attentive ear caught the word “surat.”

  “A message of some sort has come,” he said. “They will be calling Captain Lingard. I wonder what thoughts or what dreams this call will interrupt.” He spoke lightly, looking now at Mrs. Travers who had altered her position in the chair; and by their tones and attitudes these two might have been on board the yacht sailing the sea in perfect safety. “You, of course, are the one who will be told. Don’t you feel a sort of excitement, Mrs. Travers?”

  “I have been lately exhorted to patience,” she said in the same easy tone. “I can wait and I imagine I shall have to wait till the morning.”

  “It can’t be very late yet,” he said. “Time with us has been standing still for ever so long. And yet this may be the hour of fate.”

  “Is this the feeling you have at this particular moment?”

  “I have had that feeling for a considerable number of moments already. At first it was exciting. Now I am only moderately anxious. I have employed my time in going over all my past life.”

  “Can one really do that?”

  “Yes. I can’t say I have been bored to extinction. I am still alive, as you see; but I have done with that and I feel extremely idle. There is only one thing I would like to do. I want to find a few words that could convey to you my gratitude for all your friendliness in the past, at the time when you let me see so much of you in London. I felt always that you took me on my own terms and that so kindly that often I felt inclined to think better of myself. But I am afraid I am wearying you, Mrs. Travers.”

  “I assure you you have never done that — in the past. And as to the present moment I beg you not to go away. Stay by me please. We are not going to pretend that we are sleepy at this early hour.”

  D’Alcacer brought a stool close to the long chair and sat down on it. “Oh, yes, the possible hour of fate,” he said. “I have a request to make, Mrs. Travers. I don’t ask you to betray anything. What would be the good? The issue when it comes will be plain enough. But I should like to get a warning, just something that would give me time to pull myself together, to compose myself as it were. I want you to promise me that if the balance tips against us you will give me a sign. You could, for instance, seize the opportunity when I am looking at you to put your left hand to your forehead like this. It is a gesture that I have never seen you make, and so. . . .”

  “Jorgenson!” Lingard’s voice was heard forward where the light of a lantern appeared suddenly. Then, after a pause, Lingard was heard again: “Here!”

  Then the silent minutes began to go by. Mrs. Travers reclining in her chair and d’Alcacer sitting on the stool waited motionless without a word. Presently through the subdued murmurs and agitation pervading the dark deck of the Emma Mrs. Travers heard a firm footstep, and, lantern in hand, Lingard appeared outside the muslin cage.

  “Will you come out and speak to me?” he said, loudly. “Not you. The lady,” he added in an authoritative tone as d’Alcacer rose hastily from the stool. “I want Mrs. Travers.”

  “Of course,” muttered d’Alcacer to himself and as he opened the door of the Cage t
o let Mrs. Travers slip through he whispered to her, “This is the hour of fate.”

  She brushed past him swiftly without the slightest sign that she had heard the words. On the after deck between the Cage and the deckhouse Lingard waited, lantern in hand. Nobody else was visible about; but d’Alcacer felt in the air the presence of silent and excited beings hovering outside the circle of light. Lingard raised the lantern as Mrs. Travers approached and d’Alcacer heard him say: