Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  “I don’t understand — be so good as to . . .”

  She stood up. For a second he believed she intended to go away, and it was as though someone had jerked a string attached to his heart. It hurt. He remained open-mouthed and silent. But she made an irresolute step towards him, and instinctively he moved aside. They stood before one another, and the fragments of the torn letter lay between them — at their feet — like an insurmountable obstacle, like a sign of eternal separation! Around them three other couples stood still and face to face, as if waiting for a signal to begin some action — a struggle, a dispute, or a dance.

  She said: “Don’t — Alvan!” and there was something that resembled a warning in the pain of her tone. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to pierce her with his gaze. Her voice touched him. He had aspirations after magnanimity, generosity, superiority — interrupted, however, by flashes of indignation and anxiety — frightful anxiety to know how far she had gone. She looked down at the torn paper. Then she looked up, and their eyes met again, remained fastened together, like an unbreakable bond, like a clasp of eternal complicity; and the decorous silence, the pervading quietude of the house which enveloped this meeting of their glances became for a moment inexpressibly vile, for he was afraid she would say too much and make magnanimity impossible, while behind the profound mournfulness of her face there was a regret — a regret of things done — the regret of delay — the thought that if she had only turned back a week sooner — a day sooner — only an hour sooner. . . . They were afraid to hear again the sound of their voices; they did not know what they might say — perhaps something that could not be recalled; and words are more terrible than facts. But the tricky fatality that lurks in obscure impulses spoke through Alvan Hervey’s lips suddenly; and he heard his own voice with the excited and sceptical curiosity with which one listens to actors’ voices speaking on the stage in the strain of a poignant situation.

  “If you have forgotten anything . . . of course . . . I . . .”

  Her eyes blazed at him for an instant; her lips trembled — and then she also became the mouth-piece of the mysterious force forever hovering near us; of that perverse inspiration, wandering capricious and uncontrollable, like a gust of wind.

  “What is the good of this, Alvan? . . . You know why I came back. . . . You know that I could not . . . “

  He interrupted her with irritation.

  “Then! what’s this?” he asked, pointing downwards at the torn letter.

  “That’s a mistake,” she said hurriedly, in a muffled voice.

  This answer amazed him. He remained speechless, staring at her. He had half a mind to burst into a laugh. It ended in a smile as involuntary as a grimace of pain.

  “A mistake . . .” he began, slowly, and then found himself unable to say another word.

  “Yes . . . it was honest,” she said very low, as if speaking to the memory of a feeling in a remote past.

  He exploded.

  “Curse your honesty! . . . Is there any honesty in all this! . . . When did you begin to be honest? Why are you here? What are you now? . . . Still honest? . . . “

  He walked at her, raging, as if blind; during these three quick strides he lost touch of the material world and was whirled interminably through a kind of empty universe made up of nothing but fury and anguish, till he came suddenly upon her face — very close to his. He stopped short, and all at once seemed to remember something heard ages ago.

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” he shouted.

  She did not flinch. He perceived with fear that everything around him was still. She did not move a hair’s breadth; his own body did not stir. An imperturbable calm enveloped their two motionless figures, the house, the town, all the world — and the trifling tempest of his feelings. The violence of the short tumult within him had been such as could well have shattered all creation; and yet nothing was changed. He faced his wife in the familiar room in his own house. It had not fallen. And right and left all the innumerable dwellings, standing shoulder to shoulder, had resisted the shock of his passion, had presented, unmoved, to the loneliness of his trouble, the grim silence of walls, the impenetrable and polished discretion of closed doors and curtained windows. Immobility and silence pressed on him, assailed him, like two accomplices of the immovable and mute woman before his eyes. He was suddenly vanquished. He was shown his impotence. He was soothed by the breath of a corrupt resignation coming to him through the subtle irony of the surrounding peace.

  He said with villainous composure:

  “At any rate it isn’t enough for me. I want to know more — if you’re going to stay.”

  “There is nothing more to tell,” she answered, sadly.

  It struck him as so very true that he did not say anything. She went on:

  “You wouldn’t understand. . . .”

  “No?” he said, quietly. He held himself tight not to burst into howls and imprecations.

  “I tried to be faithful . . .” she began again.

  “And this?” he exclaimed, pointing at the fragments of her letter.

  “This — this is a failure,” she said.

  “I should think so,” he muttered, bitterly.

  “I tried to be faithful to myself — Alvan — and . . . and honest to you. . . .”

  “If you had tried to be faithful to me it would have been more to the purpose,” he interrupted, angrily. “I’ve been faithful to you and you have spoiled my life — both our lives . . .” Then after a pause the unconquerable preoccupation of self came out, and he raised his voice to ask resentfully, “And, pray, for how long have you been making a fool of me?”

  She seemed horribly shocked by that question. He did not wait for an answer, but went on moving about all the time; now and then coming up to her, then wandering off restlessly to the other end of the room.

  “I want to know. Everybody knows, I suppose, but myself — and that’s your honesty!”

  “I have told you there is nothing to know,” she said, speaking unsteadily as if in pain. “Nothing of what you suppose. You don’t understand me. This letter is the beginning — and the end.”

  “The end — this thing has no end,” he clamoured, unexpectedly. “Can’t you understand that? I can . . . The beginning . . .”

  He stopped and looked into her eyes with concentrated intensity, with a desire to see, to penetrate, to understand, that made him positively hold his breath till he gasped.

  “By Heavens!” he said, standing perfectly still in a peering attitude and within less than a foot from her.

  “By Heavens!” he repeated, slowly, and in a tone whose involuntary strangeness was a complete mystery to himself. “By Heavens — I could believe you — I could believe anything — now!”

  He turned short on his heel and began to walk up and down the room with an air of having disburdened himself of the final pronouncement of his life — of having said something on which he would not go back, even if he could. She remained as if rooted to the carpet. Her eyes followed the restless movements of the man, who avoided looking at her. Her wide stare clung to him, inquiring, wondering and doubtful.

  “But the fellow was forever sticking in here,” he burst out, distractedly. “He made love to you, I suppose — and, and . . .” He lowered his voice. “And — you let him.”

  “And I let him,” she murmured, catching his intonation, so that her voice sounded unconscious, sounded far off and slavish, like an echo.

  He said twice, “You! You!” violently, then calmed down. “What could you see in the fellow?” he asked, with unaffected wonder. “An effeminate, fat ass. What could you . . . Weren’t you happy? Didn’t you have all you wanted? Now — frankly; did I deceive your expectations in any way? Were you disappointed with our position — or with our prospects — perhaps? You know you couldn’t be — they are much better than you could hope for when you married me. . . .”

  He forgot himself so far as to gesticulate a little while he went on with animation:


  “What could you expect from such a fellow? He’s an outsider — a rank outsider. . . . If it hadn’t been for my money . . . do you hear? . . . for my money, he wouldn’t know where to turn. His people won’t have anything to do with him. The fellow’s no class — no class at all. He’s useful, certainly, that’s why I . . . I thought you had enough intelligence to see it. . . . And you . . . No! It’s incredible! What did he tell you? Do you care for no one’s opinion — is there no restraining influence in the world for you — women? Did you ever give me a thought? I tried to be a good husband. Did I fail? Tell me — what have I done?”

  Carried away by his feelings he took his head in both his hands and repeated wildly:

  “What have I done? . . . Tell me! What? . . .”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Ah! You see . . . you can’t . . .” he began, triumphantly, walking away; then suddenly, as though he had been flung back at her by something invisible he had met, he spun round and shouted with exasperation:

  “What on earth did you expect me to do?”

  Without a word she moved slowly towards the table, and, sitting down, leaned on her elbow, shading her eyes with her hand. All that time he glared at her watchfully as if expecting every moment to find in her deliberate movements an answer to his question. But he could not read anything, he could gather no hint of her thought. He tried to suppress his desire to shout, and after waiting awhile, said with incisive scorn:

  “Did you want me to write absurd verses; to sit and look at you for hours — to talk to you about your soul? You ought to have known I wasn’t that sort. . . . I had something better to do. But if you think I was totally blind . . .”

  He perceived in a flash that he could remember an infinity of enlightening occurrences. He could recall ever so many distinct occasions when he came upon them; he remembered the absurdly interrupted gesture of his fat, white hand, the rapt expression of her face, the glitter of unbelieving eyes; snatches of incomprehensible conversations not worth listening to, silences that had meant nothing at the time and seemed now illuminating like a burst of sunshine. He remembered all that. He had not been blind. Oh! No! And to know this was an exquisite relief: it brought back all his composure.

  “I thought it beneath me to suspect you,” he said, loftily.

  The sound of that sentence evidently possessed some magical power, because, as soon as he had spoken, he felt wonderfully at ease; and directly afterwards he experienced a flash of joyful amazement at the discovery that he could be inspired to such noble and truthful utterance. He watched the effect of his words. They caused her to glance to him quickly over her shoulder. He caught a glimpse of wet eyelashes, of a red cheek with a tear running down swiftly; and then she turned away again and sat as before, covering her face with her hands.

  “You ought to be perfectly frank with me,” he said, slowly.

  “You know everything,” she answered, indistinctly, through her fingers.

  “This letter. . . . Yes . . . but . . .”

  “And I came back,” she exclaimed in a stifled voice; “you know everything.”

  “I am glad of it — for your sake,” he said with impressive gravity. He listened to himself with solemn emotion. It seemed to him that something inexpressibly momentous was in progress within the room, that every word and every gesture had the importance of events preordained from the beginning of all things, and summing up in their finality the whole purpose of creation.

  “For your sake,” he repeated.

  Her shoulders shook as though she had been sobbing, and he forgot himself in the contemplation of her hair. Suddenly he gave a start, as if waking up, and asked very gently and not much above a whisper —

  “Have you been meeting him often?”

  “Never!” she cried into the palms of her hands.

  This answer seemed for a moment to take from him the power of speech. His lips moved for some time before any sound came.

  “You preferred to make love here — under my very nose,” he said, furiously. He calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully uneasy, as though he had let himself down in her estimation by that outburst. She rose, and with her hand on the back of the chair confronted him with eyes that were perfectly dry now. There was a red spot on each of her cheeks.

  “When I made up my mind to go to him — I wrote,” she said.

  “But you didn’t go to him,” he took up in the same tone. “How far did you go? What made you come back?”

  “I didn’t know myself,” she murmured. Nothing of her moved but her lips. He fixed her sternly.

  “Did he expect this? Was he waiting for you?” he asked.

  She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to look at her for a good while without making a sound. Then, at last —

  “And I suppose he is waiting yet?” he asked, quickly.

  Again she seemed to nod at him. For some reason he felt he must know the time. He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-past seven.

  “Is he?” he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket. He looked up at her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a short, harsh laugh, directly repressed.

  “No! It’s the most unheard! . . .” he mumbled while she stood before him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought. He laughed again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation. He did not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the facts of existence — for facts in general — such an immense disgust at the thought of all the many days already lived through. He was wearied. Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength. He said —

  “You deceived me — now you make a fool of him . . . It’s awful! Why?”

  “I deceived myself!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh! Nonsense!” he said, impatiently.

  “I am ready to go if you wish it,” she went on, quickly. “It was due to you — to be told — to know. No! I could not!” she cried, and stood still wringing her hands stealthily.

  “I am glad you repented before it was too late,” he said in a dull tone and looking at his boots. “I am glad . . . some spark of better feeling,” he muttered, as if to himself. He lifted up his head after a moment of brooding silence. “I am glad to see that there is some sense of decency left in you,” he added a little louder. Looking at her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out —

  “After all, I loved you. . . .”

  “I did not know,” she whispered.

  “Good God!” he cried. “Why do you imagine I married you?”

  The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered her.

  “Ah — why?” she said through her teeth.

  He appeared overcome with horror, and watched her lips intently as though in fear.

  “I imagined many things,” she said, slowly, and paused. He watched, holding his breath. At last she went on musingly, as if thinking aloud, “I tried to understand. I tried honestly. . . . Why? . . . To do the usual thing — I suppose. . . . To please yourself.”

  He walked away smartly, and when he came back, close to her, he had a flushed face.

  “You seemed pretty well pleased, too — at the time,” he hissed, with scathing fury. “I needn’t ask whether you loved me.”

  “I know now I was perfectly incapable of such a thing,” she said, calmly, “If I had, perhaps you would not have married me.”

  “It’s very clear I would not have done it if I had known you — as I know you now.”

  He seemed to see himself proposing to her — ages ago. They were strolling up the slope of a lawn. Groups of people were scattered in sunshine. The shadows of leafy boughs lay still on the short grass. The coloured sunshades far off, passing between trees, resembled deliberate and brilliant butterflies moving without a flutter. Men smiling amiably, or else very grave, within the impeccable shelter of their black coats, stood by the side of women who, clustered in clear summer t
oilettes, recalled all the fabulous tales of enchanted gardens where animated flowers smile at bewitched knights. There was a sumptuous serenity in it all, a thin, vibrating excitement, the perfect security, as of an invincible ignorance, that evoked within him a transcendent belief in felicity as the lot of all mankind, a recklessly picturesque desire to get promptly something for himself only, out of that splendour unmarred by any shadow of a thought. The girl walked by his side across an open space; no one was near, and suddenly he stood still, as if inspired, and spoke. He remembered looking at her pure eyes, at her candid brow; he remembered glancing about quickly to see if they were being observed, and thinking that nothing could go wrong in a world of so much charm, purity, and distinction. He was proud of it. He was one of its makers, of its possessors, of its guardians, of its extollers. He wanted to grasp it solidly, to get as much gratification as he could out of it; and in view of its incomparable quality, of its unstained atmosphere, of its nearness to the heaven of its choice, this gust of brutal desire seemed the most noble of aspirations. In a second he lived again through all these moments, and then all the pathos of his failure presented itself to him with such vividness that there was a suspicion of tears in his tone when he said almost unthinkingly, “My God! I did love you!”

  She seemed touched by the emotion of his voice. Her lips quivered a little, and she made one faltering step towards him, putting out her hands in a beseeching gesture, when she perceived, just in time, that being absorbed by the tragedy of his life he had absolutely forgotten her very existence. She stopped, and her outstretched arms fell slowly. He, with his features distorted by the bitterness of his thought, saw neither her movement nor her gesture. He stamped his foot in vexation, rubbed his head — then exploded.

  “What the devil am I to do now?”

  He was still again. She seemed to understand, and moved to the door firmly.

  “It’s very simple — I’m going,” she said aloud.

  At the sound of her voice he gave a start of surprise, looked at her wildly, and asked in a piercing tone —