The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER I

  "Such a charming lady in a grey silk dress and a hand as white as snow.She looked at me through such funny glasses on the end of a long handle.A very great lady but her voice was as kind as the voice of a saint. Ihave never seen anything like that. She made me feel so timid."

  The voice uttering these words was the voice of Therese and I looked ather from a bed draped heavily in brown silk curtains fantastically loopedup from ceiling to floor. The glow of a sunshiny day was toned down byclosed jalousies to a mere transparency of darkness. In this thin mediumTherese's form appeared flat, without detail, as if cut out of blackpaper. It glided towards the window and with a click and a scrape let inthe full flood of light which smote my aching eyeballs painfully.

  In truth all that night had been the abomination of desolation to me.After wrestling with my thoughts, if the acute consciousness of a woman'sexistence may be called a thought, I had apparently dropped off to sleeponly to go on wrestling with a nightmare, a senseless and terrifyingdream of being in bonds which, even after waking, made me feel powerlessin all my limbs. I lay still, suffering acutely from a renewed sense ofexistence, unable to lift an arm, and wondering why I was not at sea, howlong I had slept, how long Therese had been talking before her voice hadreached me in that purgatory of hopeless longing and unanswerablequestions to which I was condemned.

  It was Therese's habit to begin talking directly she entered the roomwith the tray of morning coffee. This was her method for waking me up.I generally regained the consciousness of the external world on somepious phrase asserting the spiritual comfort of early mass, or on angrylamentations about the unconscionable rapacity of the dealers in fish andvegetables; for after mass it was Therese's practice to do the marketingfor the house. As a matter of fact the necessity of having to pay, toactually give money to people, infuriated the pious Therese. But thematter of this morning's speech was so extraordinary that it might havebeen the prolongation of a nightmare: a man in bonds having to listen toweird and unaccountable speeches against which, he doesn't know why, hisvery soul revolts.

  In sober truth my soul remained in revolt though I was convinced that Iwas no longer dreaming. I watched Therese coming away from the windowwith that helpless dread a man bound hand and foot may be excused tofeel. For in such a situation even the absurd may appear ominous. Shecame up close to the bed and folding her hands meekly in front of herturned her eyes up to the ceiling.

  "If I had been her daughter she couldn't have spoken more softly to me,"she said sentimentally.

  I made a great effort to speak.

  "Mademoiselle Therese, you are raving."

  "She addressed me as Mademoiselle, too, so nicely. I was struck withveneration for her white hair but her face, believe me, my dear youngMonsieur, has not so many wrinkles as mine."

  She compressed her lips with an angry glance at me as if I could help herwrinkles, then she sighed.

  "God sends wrinkles, but what is our face?" she digressed in a tone ofgreat humility. "We shall have glorious faces in Paradise. But meantimeGod has permitted me to preserve a smooth heart."

  "Are you going to keep on like this much longer?" I fairly shouted ather. "What are you talking about?"

  "I am talking about the sweet old lady who came in a carriage. Not afiacre. I can tell a fiacre. In a little carriage shut in with glassall in front. I suppose she is very rich. The carriage was very shinyoutside and all beautiful grey stuff inside. I opened the door to hermyself. She got out slowly like a queen. I was struck all of a heap.Such a shiny beautiful little carriage. There were blue silk tasselsinside, beautiful silk tassels."

  Obviously Therese had been very much impressed by a brougham, though shedidn't know the name for it. Of all the town she knew nothing but thestreets which led to a neighbouring church frequented only by the poorerclasses and the humble quarter around, where she did her marketing.Besides, she was accustomed to glide along the walls with her eyes castdown; for her natural boldness would never show itself through thatnun-like mien except when bargaining, if only on a matter of threepence.Such a turn-out had never been presented to her notice before. Thetraffic in the street of the Consuls was mostly pedestrian and far fromfashionable. And anyhow Therese never looked out of the window. Shelurked in the depths of the house like some kind of spider that shunsattention. She used to dart at one from some dark recesses which I neverexplored.

  Yet it seemed to me that she exaggerated her raptures for some reason orother. With her it was very difficult to distinguish between craft andinnocence.

  "Do you mean to say," I asked suspiciously, "that an old lady wants tohire an apartment here? I hope you told her there was no room, because,you know, this house is not exactly the thing for venerable old ladies."

  "Don't make me angry, my dear young Monsieur. I have been to confessionthis morning. Aren't you comfortable? Isn't the house appointed richlyenough for anybody?"

  That girl with a peasant-nun's face had never seen the inside of a houseother than some half-ruined _caserio_ in her native hills.

  I pointed out to her that this was not a matter of splendour or comfortbut of "convenances." She pricked up her ears at that word whichprobably she had never heard before; but with woman's uncanny intuition Ibelieve she understood perfectly what I meant. Her air of saintlypatience became so pronounced that with my own poor intuition I perceivedthat she was raging at me inwardly. Her weather-tanned complexion,already affected by her confined life, took on an extraordinary clayeyaspect which reminded me of a strange head painted by El Greco which myfriend Prax had hung on one of his walls and used to rail at; yet notwithout a certain respect.

  Therese, with her hands still meekly folded about her waist, had masteredthe feelings of anger so unbecoming to a person whose sins had beenabsolved only about three hours before, and asked me with an insinuatingsoftness whether she wasn't an honest girl enough to look after any oldlady belonging to a world which after all was sinful. She reminded methat she had kept house ever since she was "so high" for her uncle thepriest: a man well-known for his saintliness in a large districtextending even beyond Pampeluna. The character of a house depended uponthe person who ruled it. She didn't know what impenitent wretches hadbeen breathing within these walls in the time of that godless and wickedman who had planted every seed of perdition in "our Rita's" ill-disposedheart. But he was dead and she, Therese, knew for certain thatwickedness perished utterly, because of God's anger (_la colere du bonDieu_). She would have no hesitation in receiving a bishop, if need be,since "our, Rita," with her poor, wretched, unbelieving heart, hadnothing more to do with the house.

  All this came out of her like an unctuous trickle of some acrid oil. Thelow, voluble delivery was enough by itself to compel my attention.

  "You think you know your sister's heart," I asked.

  She made small eyes at me to discover if I was angry. She seemed to havean invincible faith in the virtuous dispositions of young men. And as Ihad spoken in measured tones and hadn't got red in the face she letherself go.

  "Black, my dear young Monsieur. Black. I always knew it. Uncle, poorsaintly man, was too holy to take notice of anything. He was too busywith his thoughts to listen to anything I had to say to him. Forinstance as to her shamelessness. She was always ready to run half nakedabout the hills. . . "

  "Yes. After your goats. All day long. Why didn't you mend her frocks?"

  "Oh, you know about the goats. My dear young Monsieur, I could nevertell when she would fling over her pretended sweetness and put her tongueout at me. Did she tell you about a boy, the son of pious and richparents, whom she tried to lead astray into the wildness of thoughts likeher own, till the poor dear child drove her off because she outraged hismodesty? I saw him often with his parents at Sunday mass. The grace ofGod preserved him and made him quite a gentleman in Paris. Perhaps itwill touch Rita's heart, too, some day. But she was awful then. When Iwouldn't liste
n to her complaints she would say: 'All right, sister, Iwould just as soon go clothed in rain and wind.' And such a bag ofbones, too, like the picture of a devil's imp. Ah, my dear youngMonsieur, you don't know how wicked her heart is. You aren't bad enoughfor that yourself. I don't believe you are evil at all in your innocentlittle heart. I never heard you jeer at holy things. You are onlythoughtless. For instance, I have never seen you make the sign of thecross in the morning. Why don't you make a practice of crossing yourselfdirectly you open your eyes. It's a very good thing. It keeps Satan offfor the day."

  She proffered that advice in a most matter-of-fact tone as if it were aprecaution against a cold, compressed her lips, then returning to herfixed idea, "But the house is mine," she insisted very quietly with anaccent which made me feel that Satan himself would never manage to tearit out of her hands.

  "And so I told the great lady in grey. I told her that my sister hadgiven it to me and that surely God would not let her take it away again."

  "You told that grey-headed lady, an utter stranger! You are getting morecrazy every day. You have neither good sense nor good feeling,Mademoiselle Therese, let me tell you. Do you talk about your sister tothe butcher and the greengrocer, too? A downright savage would have morerestraint. What's your object? What do you expect from it? Whatpleasure do you get from it? Do you think you please God by abusing yoursister? What do you think you are?"

  "A poor lone girl amongst a lot of wicked people. Do you think I wantedto go forth amongst those abominations? it's that poor sinful Rita thatwouldn't let me be where I was, serving a holy man, next door to achurch, and sure of my share of Paradise. I simply obeyed my uncle.It's he who told me to go forth and attempt to save her soul, bring herback to us, to a virtuous life. But what would be the good of that? Sheis given over to worldly, carnal thoughts. Of course we are a goodfamily and my uncle is a great man in the country, but where is thereputable farmer or God-fearing man of that kind that would dare to bringsuch a girl into his house to his mother and sisters. No, let her giveher ill-gotten wealth up to the deserving and devote the rest of her lifeto repentance."

  She uttered these righteous reflections and presented this programme forthe salvation of her sister's soul in a reasonable convinced tone whichwas enough to give goose flesh to one all over.

  "Mademoiselle Therese," I said, "you are nothing less than a monster."

  She received that true expression of my opinion as though I had given hera sweet of a particularly delicious kind. She liked to be abused. Itpleased her to be called names. I did let her have that satisfaction toher heart's content. At last I stopped because I could do no more,unless I got out of bed to beat her. I have a vague notion that shewould have liked that, too, but I didn't try. After I had stopped shewaited a little before she raised her downcast eyes.

  "You are a dear, ignorant, flighty young gentleman," she said. "Nobodycan tell what a cross my sister is to me except the good priest in thechurch where I go every day."

  "And the mysterious lady in grey," I suggested sarcastically.

  "Such a person might have guessed it," answered Therese, seriously, "butI told her nothing except that this house had been given me in fullproperty by our Rita. And I wouldn't have done that if she hadn't spokento me of my sister first. I can't tell too many people about that. Onecan't trust Rita. I know she doesn't fear God but perhaps human respectmay keep her from taking this house back from me. If she doesn't want meto talk about her to people why doesn't she give me a properly stampedpiece of paper for it?"

  She said all this rapidly in one breath and at the end had a sort ofanxious gasp which gave me the opportunity to voice my surprise. It wasimmense.

  "That lady, the strange lady, spoke to you of your sister first!" Icried.

  "The lady asked me, after she had been in a little time, whether reallythis house belonged to Madame de Lastaola. She had been so sweet andkind and condescending that I did not mind humiliating my spirit beforesuch a good Christian. I told her that I didn't know how the poor sinnerin her mad blindness called herself, but that this house had been givento me truly enough by my sister. She raised her eyebrows at that but shelooked at me at the same time so kindly, as much as to say, 'Don't trustmuch to that, my dear girl,' that I couldn't help taking up her hand,soft as down, and kissing it. She took it away pretty quick but she wasnot offended. But she only said, 'That's very generous on your sister'spart,' in a way that made me run cold all over. I suppose all the worldknows our Rita for a shameless girl. It was then that the lady took upthose glasses on a long gold handle and looked at me through them till Ifelt very much abashed. She said to me, 'There is nothing to be unhappyabout. Madame de Lastaola is a very remarkable person who has done manysurprising things. She is not to be judged like other people and as faras I know she has never wronged a single human being. . . .' That putheart into me, I can tell you; and the lady told me then not to disturbher son. She would wait till he woke up. She knew he was a bad sleeper.I said to her: 'Why, I can hear the dear sweet gentleman this momenthaving his bath in the fencing-room,' and I took her into the studio.They are there now and they are going to have their lunch together attwelve o'clock."

  "Why on earth didn't you tell me at first that the lady was Mrs. Blunt?"

  "Didn't I? I thought I did," she said innocently. I felt a suddendesire to get out of that house, to fly from the reinforced Blunt elementwhich was to me so oppressive.

  "I want to get up and dress, Mademoiselle Therese," I said.

  She gave a slight start and without looking at me again glided out of theroom, the many folds of her brown skirt remaining undisturbed as shemoved.

  I looked at my watch; it was ten o'clock. Therese had been late with mycoffee. The delay was clearly caused by the unexpected arrival of Mr.Blunt's mother, which might or might not have been expected by her son.The existence of those Blunts made me feel uncomfortable in a peculiarway as though they had been the denizens of another planet with a subtlydifferent point of view and something in the intelligence which was boundto remain unknown to me. It caused in me a feeling of inferiority whichI intensely disliked. This did not arise from the actual fact that thosepeople originated in another continent. I had met Americans before. Andthe Blunts were Americans. But so little! That was the trouble.Captain Blunt might have been a Frenchman as far as languages, tones, andmanners went. But you could not have mistaken him for one. . . . Why?You couldn't tell. It was something indefinite. It occurred to me whileI was towelling hard my hair, face, and the back of my neck, that I couldnot meet J. K. Blunt on equal terms in any relation of life exceptperhaps arms in hand, and in preference with pistols, which are lessintimate, acting at a distance--but arms of some sort. For physicallyhis life, which could be taken away from him, was exactly like mine, heldon the same terms and of the same vanishing quality.

  I would have smiled at my absurdity if all, even the most intimate,vestige of gaiety had not been crushed out of my heart by the intolerableweight of my love for Rita. It crushed, it overshadowed, too, it wasimmense. If there were any smiles in the world (which I didn't believe)I could not have seen them. Love for Rita . . . if it was love, I askedmyself despairingly, while I brushed my hair before a glass. It did notseem to have any sort of beginning as far as I could remember. A thingthe origin of which you cannot trace cannot be seriously considered. Itis an illusion. Or perhaps mine was a physical state, some sort ofdisease akin to melancholia which is a form of insanity? The onlymoments of relief I could remember were when she and I would startsquabbling like two passionate infants in a nursery, over anything underheaven, over a phrase, a word sometimes, in the great light of the glassrotunda, disregarding the quiet entrances and exits of the ever-activeRose, in great bursts of voices and peals of laughter. . . .

  I felt tears come into my eyes at the memory of her laughter, the truememory of the senses almost more penetrating than the reality itself. Ithaunted me. All that appertained to he
r haunted me with the same awfulintimacy, her whole form in the familiar pose, her very substance in itscolour and texture, her eyes, her lips, the gleam of her teeth, the tawnymist of her hair, the smoothness of her forehead, the faint scent thatshe used, the very shape, feel, and warmth of her high-heeled slipperthat would sometimes in the heat of the discussion drop on the floor witha crash, and which I would (always in the heat of the discussion) pick upand toss back on the couch without ceasing to argue. And besides beinghaunted by what was Rita on earth I was haunted also by her waywardness,her gentleness and her flame, by that which the high gods called Ritawhen speaking of her amongst themselves. Oh, yes, certainly I washaunted by her but so was her sister Therese--who was crazy. It provednothing. As to her tears, since I had not caused them, they only arousedmy indignation. To put her head on my shoulder, to weep these strangetears, was nothing short of an outrageous liberty. It was a mereemotional trick. She would have just as soon leaned her head against theover-mantel of one of those tall, red granite chimney-pieces in order toweep comfortably. And then when she had no longer any need of supportshe dispensed with it by simply telling me to go away. How convenient!The request had sounded pathetic, almost sacredly so, but then it mighthave been the exhibition of the coolest possible impudence. With her onecould not tell. Sorrow, indifference, tears, smiles, all with her seemedto have a hidden meaning. Nothing could be trusted. . . Heavens! Am Ias crazy as Therese I asked myself with a passing chill of fear, whileoccupied in equalizing the ends of my neck-tie.

  I felt suddenly that "this sort of thing" would kill me. The definitionof the cause was vague, but the thought itself was no mere morbidartificiality of sentiment but a genuine conviction. "That sort ofthing" was what I would have to die from. It wouldn't be from theinnumerable doubts. Any sort of certitude would be also deadly. Itwouldn't be from a stab--a kiss would kill me as surely. It would not befrom a frown or from any particular word or any particular act--but fromhaving to bear them all, together and in succession--from having to livewith "that sort of thing." About the time I finished with my neck-tie Ihad done with life too. I absolutely did not care because I couldn'ttell whether, mentally and physically, from the roots of my hair to thesoles of my feet--whether I was more weary or unhappy.

  And now my toilet was finished, my occupation was gone. An immensedistress descended upon me. It has been observed that the routine ofdaily life, that arbitrary system of trifles, is a great moral support.But my toilet was finished, I had nothing more to do of those thingsconsecrated by usage and which leave you no option. The exercise of anykind of volition by a man whose consciousness is reduced to the sensationthat he is being killed by "that sort of thing" cannot be anything butmere trifling with death, an insincere pose before himself. I wasn'tcapable of it. It was then that I discovered that being killed by "thatsort of thing," I mean the absolute conviction of it, was, so to speak,nothing in itself. The horrible part was the waiting. That was thecruelty, the tragedy, the bitterness of it. "Why the devil don't I dropdead now?" I asked myself peevishly, taking a clean handkerchief out ofthe drawer and stuffing it in my pocket.

  This was absolutely the last thing, the last ceremony of an imperativerite. I was abandoned to myself now and it was terrible. Generally Iused to go out, walk down to the port, take a look at the craft I lovedwith a sentiment that was extremely complex, being mixed up with theimage of a woman; perhaps go on board, not because there was anything forme to do there but just for nothing, for happiness, simply as a man willsit contented in the companionship of the beloved object. For lunch Ihad the choice of two places, one Bohemian, the other select, evenaristocratic, where I had still my reserved table in the _petit salon_,up the white staircase. In both places I had friends who treated myerratic appearances with discretion, in one case tinged with respect, inthe other with a certain amused tolerance. I owed this tolerance to themost careless, the most confirmed of those Bohemians (his beard hadstreaks of grey amongst its many other tints) who, once bringing hisheavy hand down on my shoulder, took my defence against the charge ofbeing disloyal and even foreign to that milieu of earnest visions takingbeautiful and revolutionary shapes in the smoke of pipes, in the jingleof glasses.

  "That fellow (_ce garcon_) is a primitive nature, but he may be an artistin a sense. He has broken away from his conventions. He is trying toput a special vibration and his own notion of colour into his life; andperhaps even to give it a modelling according to his own ideas. And forall you know he may be on the track of a masterpiece; but observe: if ithappens to be one nobody will see it. It can be only for himself. Andeven he won't be able to see it in its completeness except on hisdeath-bed. There is something fine in that."

  I had blushed with pleasure; such fine ideas had never entered my head.But there was something fine. . . . How far all this seemed! How muteand how still! What a phantom he was, that man with a beard of at leastseven tones of brown. And those shades of the other kind such asBaptiste with the shaven diplomatic face, the _maitre d'hotel_ in chargeof the _petit salon_, taking my hat and stick from me with a deferentialremark: "Monsieur is not very often seen nowadays." And those otherwell-groomed heads raised and nodding at my passage--"_Bonjour_.""_Bonjour_"--following me with interested eyes; these young X.s and Z.s,low-toned, markedly discreet, lounging up to my table on their way outwith murmurs: "Are you well?"--"Will one see you anywhere thisevening?"--not from curiosity, God forbid, but just from friendliness;and passing on almost without waiting for an answer. What had I to dowith them, this elegant dust, these moulds of provincial fashion?

  I also often lunched with Dona Rita without invitation. But that was nowunthinkable. What had I to do with a woman who allowed somebody else tomake her cry and then with an amazing lack of good feeling did heroffensive weeping on my shoulder? Obviously I could have nothing to dowith her. My five minutes' meditation in the middle of the bedroom cameto an end without even a sigh. The dead don't sigh, and for allpractical purposes I was that, except for the final consummation, thegrowing cold, the _rigor mortis_--that blessed state! With measuredsteps I crossed the landing to my sitting-room.