The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  CHAPTER V

  Coming out of the bright light of the studio I didn't make out Theresevery distinctly. She, however, having groped in dark cupboards, musthave had her pupils sufficiently dilated to have seen that I had my haton my head. This has its importance because after what I had said to herupstairs it must have convinced her that I was going out on some midnightbusiness. I passed her without a word and heard behind me the door ofthe studio close with an unexpected crash. It strikes me now that underthe circumstances I might have without shame gone back to listen at thekeyhole. But truth to say the association of events was not so clear inmy mind as it may be to the reader of this story. Neither were the exactconnections of persons present to my mind. And, besides, one doesn'tlisten at a keyhole but in pursuance of some plan; unless one isafflicted by a vulgar and fatuous curiosity. But that vice is not in mycharacter. As to plan, I had none. I moved along the passage betweenthe dead wall and the black-and-white marble elevation of the staircasewith hushed footsteps, as though there had been a mortally sick personsomewhere in the house. And the only person that could have answered tothat description was Senor Ortega. I moved on, stealthy, absorbed,undecided; asking myself earnestly: "What on earth am I going to do withhim?" That exclusive preoccupation of my mind was as dangerous to SenorOrtega as typhoid fever would have been. It strikes me that thiscomparison is very exact. People recover from typhoid fever, butgenerally the chance is considered poor. This was precisely his case.His chance was poor; though I had no more animosity towards him than avirulent disease has against the victim it lays low. He really wouldhave nothing to reproach me with; he had run up against me, unwittingly,as a man enters an infected place, and now he was very ill, very illindeed. No, I had no plans against him. I had only the feeling that hewas in mortal danger.

  I believe that men of the most daring character (and I make no claim toit) often do shrink from the logical processes of thought. It is onlythe devil, they say, that loves logic. But I was not a devil. I was noteven a victim of the devil. It was only that I had given up thedirection of my intelligence before the problem; or rather that theproblem had dispossessed my intelligence and reigned in its stead side byside with a superstitious awe. A dreadful order seemed to lurk in thedarkest shadows of life. The madness of that Carlist with the soul of aJacobin, the vile fears of Baron H., that excellent organizer ofsupplies, the contact of their two ferocious stupidities, and last, by aremote disaster at sea, my love brought into direct contact with thesituation: all that was enough to make one shudder--not at the chance,but at the design.

  For it was my love that was called upon to act here, and nothing else.And love which elevates us above all safeguards, above restrainingprinciples, above all littlenesses of self-possession, yet keeps its feetalways firmly on earth, remains marvellously practical in itssuggestions.

  I discovered that however much I had imagined I had given up Rita, thatwhatever agonies I had gone through, my hope of her had never been lost.Plucked out, stamped down, torn to shreds, it had remained with mesecret, intact, invincible. Before the danger of the situation itsprang, full of life, up in arms--the undying child of immortal love.What incited me was independent of honour and compassion; it was theprompting of a love supreme, practical, remorseless in its aim; it wasthe practical thought that no woman need be counted as lost for ever,unless she be dead!

  This excluded for the moment all considerations of ways and means andrisks and difficulties. Its tremendous intensity robbed it of alldirection and left me adrift in the big black-and-white hall as on asilent sea. It was not, properly speaking, irresolution. It was merelyhesitation as to the next immediate step, and that step even of no greatimportance: hesitation merely as to the best way I could spend the restof the night. I didn't think further forward for many reasons, more orless optimistic, but mainly because I have no homicidal vein in mycomposition. The disposition to gloat over homicide was in thatmiserable creature in the studio, the potential Jacobin; in thatconfounded buyer of agricultural produce, the punctual employe ofHernandez Brothers, the jealous wretch with an obscene tongue and animagination of the same kind to drive him mad. I thought of him withoutpity but also without contempt. I reflected that there were no means ofsending a warning to Dona Rita in Tolosa; for of course no postalcommunication existed with the Headquarters. And moreover what would awarning be worth in this particular case, supposing it would reach her,that she would believe it, and that she would know what to do? How couldI communicate to another that certitude which was in my mind, the moreabsolute because without proofs that one could produce?

  The last expression of Rose's distress rang again in my ears: "Madame hasno friends. Not one!" and I saw Dona Rita's complete loneliness beset byall sorts of insincerities, surrounded by pitfalls; her greatest dangerswithin herself, in her generosity, in her fears, in her courage, too.What I had to do first of all was to stop that wretch at all costs. Ibecame aware of a great mistrust of Therese. I didn't want her to findme in the hall, but I was reluctant to go upstairs to my rooms from anunreasonable feeling that there I would be too much out of the way; notsufficiently on the spot. There was the alternative of a live-long nightof watching outside, before the dark front of the house. It was a mostdistasteful prospect. And then it occurred to me that Blunt's formerroom would be an extremely good place to keep a watch from. I knew thatroom. When Henry Allegre gave the house to Rita in the early days (longbefore he made his will) he had planned a complete renovation and thisroom had been meant for the drawing-room. Furniture had been made for itspecially, upholstered in beautiful ribbed stuff, made to order, of dullgold colour with a pale blue tracery of arabesques and oval medallionsenclosing Rita's monogram, repeated on the backs of chairs and sofas, andon the heavy curtains reaching from ceiling to floor. To the same timebelonged the ebony and bronze doors, the silver statuette at the foot ofthe stairs, the forged iron balustrade reproducing right up the marblestaircase Rita's decorative monogram in its complicated design.Afterwards the work was stopped and the house had fallen into disrepair.When Rita devoted it to the Carlist cause a bed was put into thatdrawing-room, just simply the bed. The room next to that yellow salonhad been in Allegre's young days fitted as a fencing-room containing alsoa bath, and a complicated system of all sorts of shower and jetarrangements, then quite up to date. That room was very large, lightedfrom the top, and one wall of it was covered by trophies of arms of allsorts, a choice collection of cold steel disposed on a background ofIndian mats and rugs: Blunt used it as a dressing-room. It communicatedby a small door with the studio.

  I had only to extend my hand and make one step to reach the magnificentbronze handle of the ebony door, and if I didn't want to be caught byTherese there was no time to lose. I made the step and extended thehand, thinking that it would be just like my luck to find the doorlocked. But the door came open to my push. In contrast to the dark hallthe room was most unexpectedly dazzling to my eyes, as if illuminated _agiorno_ for a reception. No voice came from it, but nothing could havestopped me now. As I turned round to shut the door behind me noiselesslyI caught sight of a woman's dress on a chair, of other articles ofapparel scattered about. The mahogany bed with a piece of light silkwhich Therese found somewhere and used for a counterpane was amagnificent combination of white and crimson between the gleamingsurfaces of dark wood; and the whole room had an air of splendour withmarble consoles, gilt carvings, long mirrors and a sumptuous Venetianlustre depending from the ceiling: a darkling mass of icy pendantscatching a spark here and there from the candles of an eight-branchedcandelabra standing on a little table near the head of a sofa which hadbeen dragged round to face the fireplace. The faintest possible whiff ofa familiar perfume made my head swim with its suggestion.

  I grabbed the back of the nearest piece of furniture and the splendour ofmarbles and mirrors, of cut crystals and carvings, swung before my eyesin the golden mist of walls and draperies round an extremely conspicuouspair of black stockings
thrown over a music stool which remainedmotionless. The silence was profound. It was like being in an enchantedplace. Suddenly a voice began to speak, clear, detached, infinitelytouching in its calm weariness.

  "Haven't you tormented me enough to-day?" it said. . . . My head wassteady now but my heart began to beat violently. I listened to the endwithout moving, "Can't you make up your mind to leave me alone forto-night?" It pleaded with an accent of charitable scorn.

  The penetrating quality of these tones which I had not heard for so many,many days made my eyes run full of tears. I guessed easily that theappeal was addressed to the atrocious Therese. The speaker was concealedfrom me by the high back of the sofa, but her apprehension was perfectlyjustified. For was it not I who had turned back Therese the pious, theinsatiable, coming downstairs in her nightgown to torment her sister somemore? Mere surprise at Dona Rita's presence in the house was enough toparalyze me; but I was also overcome by an enormous sense of relief, bythe assurance of security for her and for myself. I didn't even askmyself how she came there. It was enough for me that she was not inTolosa. I could have smiled at the thought that all I had to do now wasto hasten the departure of that abominable lunatic--for Tolosa: an easytask, almost no task at all. Yes, I would have smiled, had not I feltoutraged by the presence of Senor Ortega under the same roof with DonaRita. The mere fact was repugnant to me, morally revolting; so that Ishould have liked to rush at him and throw him out into the street. Butthat was not to be done for various reasons. One of them was pity. Iwas suddenly at peace with all mankind, with all nature. I felt as if Icouldn't hurt a fly. The intensity of my emotion sealed my lips. With afearful joy tugging at my heart I moved round the head of the couchwithout a word.

  In the wide fireplace on a pile of white ashes the logs had a deepcrimson glow; and turned towards them Dona Rita reclined on her sideenveloped in the skins of wild beasts like a charming and savage youngchieftain before a camp fire. She never even raised her eyes, giving methe opportunity to contemplate mutely that adolescent, delicatelymasculine head, so mysteriously feminine in the power of instantseduction, so infinitely suave in its firm design, almost childlike inthe freshness of detail: altogether ravishing in the inspired strength ofthe modelling. That precious head reposed in the palm of her hand; theface was slightly flushed (with anger perhaps). She kept her eyesobstinately fixed on the pages of a book which she was holding with herother hand. I had the time to lay my infinite adoration at her feetwhose white insteps gleamed below the dark edge of the fur out of quiltedblue silk bedroom slippers, embroidered with small pearls. I had neverseen them before; I mean the slippers. The gleam of the insteps, too,for that matter. I lost myself in a feeling of deep content, somethinglike a foretaste of a time of felicity which must be quiet or it couldn'tbe eternal. I had never tasted such perfect quietness before. It wasnot of this earth. I had gone far beyond. It was as if I had reachedthe ultimate wisdom beyond all dreams and all passions. She was Thatwhich is to be contemplated to all Infinity.

  The perfect stillness and silence made her raise her eyes at last,reluctantly, with a hard, defensive expression which I had never seen inthem before. And no wonder! The glance was meant for Therese andassumed in self-defence. For some time its character did not change andwhen it did it turned into a perfectly stony stare of a kind which I alsohad never seen before. She had never wished so much to be left in peace.She had never been so astonished in her life. She had arrived by theevening express only two hours before Senor Ortega, had driven to thehouse, and after having something to eat had become for the rest of theevening the helpless prey of her sister who had fawned and scolded andwheedled and threatened in a way that outraged all Rita's feelings.Seizing this unexpected occasion Therese had displayed a distractingversatility of sentiment: rapacity, virtue, piety, spite, and falsetenderness--while, characteristically enough, she unpacked thedressing-bag, helped the sinner to get ready for bed, brushed her hair,and finally, as a climax, kissed her hands, partly by surprise and partlyby violence. After that she had retired from the field of battle slowly,undefeated, still defiant, firing as a last shot the impudent question:"Tell me only, have you made your will, Rita?" To this poor Dona Ritawith the spirit of opposition strung to the highest pitch answered: "No,and I don't mean to"--being under the impression that this was what hersister wanted her to do. There can be no doubt, however, that allTherese wanted was the information.

  Rita, much too agitated to expect anything but a sleepless night, had notthe courage to get into bed. She thought she would remain on the sofabefore the fire and try to compose herself with a book. As she had nodressing-gown with her she put on her long fur coat over her night-gown,threw some logs on the fire, and lay down. She didn't hear the slightestnoise of any sort till she heard me shut the door gently. Quietness ofmovement was one of Therese's accomplishments, and the harassed heiressof the Allegre millions naturally thought it was her sister coming againto renew the scene. Her heart sank within her. In the end she became alittle frightened at the long silence, and raised her eyes. She didn'tbelieve them for a long time. She concluded that I was a vision. Infact, the first word which I heard her utter was a low, awed "No," which,though I understood its meaning, chilled my blood like an evil omen.

  It was then that I spoke. "Yes," I said, "it's me that you see," andmade a step forward. She didn't start; only her other hand flew to theedges of the fur coat, gripping them together over her breast. Observingthis gesture I sat down in the nearest chair. The book she had beenreading slipped with a thump on the floor.

  "How is it possible that you should be here?" she said, still in adoubting voice.

  "I am really here," I said. "Would you like to touch my hand?"

  She didn't move at all; her fingers still clutched the fur coat.

  "What has happened?"

  "It's a long story, but you may take it from me that all is over. Thetie between us is broken. I don't know that it was ever very close. Itwas an external thing. The true misfortune is that I have ever seenyou."

  This last phrase was provoked by an exclamation of sympathy on her part.She raised herself on her elbow and looked at me intently. "All over,"she murmured.

  "Yes, we had to wreck the little vessel. It was awful. I feel like amurderer. But she had to be killed."

  "Why?"

  "Because I loved her too much. Don't you know that love and death govery close together?"

  "I could feel almost happy that it is all over, if you hadn't had to loseyour love. Oh, _amigo_ George, it was a safe love for you."

  "Yes," I said. "It was a faithful little vessel. She would have savedus all from any plain danger. But this was a betrayal. It was--nevermind. All that's past. The question is what will the next one be."

  "Why should it be that?"

  "I don't know. Life seems but a series of betrayals. There are so manykinds of them. This was a betrayed plan, but one can betray confidence,and hope and--desire, and the most sacred . . ."

  "But what are you doing here?" she interrupted.

  "Oh, yes! The eternal why. Till a few hours ago I didn't know what Iwas here for. And what are you here for?" I asked point blank and with abitterness she disregarded. She even answered my question quite readilywith many words out of which I could make very little. I only learnedthat for at least five mixed reasons, none of which impressed meprofoundly, Dona Rita had started at a moment's notice from Paris withnothing but a dressing-bag, and permitting Rose to go and visit her agedparents for two days, and then follow her mistress. That girl of latehad looked so perturbed and worried that the sensitive Rita, fearing thatshe was tired of her place, proposed to settle a sum of money on herwhich would have enabled her to devote herself entirely to her agedparents. And did I know what that extraordinary girl said? She hadsaid: "Don't let Madame think that I would be too proud to acceptanything whatever from her; but I can't even dream of leaving Madame. Ibelieve Madame has no friends. Not one." S
o instead of a large sum ofmoney Dona Rita gave the girl a kiss and as she had been worried byseveral people who wanted her to go to Tolosa she bolted down this wayjust to get clear of all those busybodies. "Hide from them," she went onwith ardour. "Yes, I came here to hide," she repeated twice as ifdelighted at last to have hit on that reason among so many others. "Howcould I tell that you would be here?" Then with sudden fire which onlyadded to the delight with which I had been watching the play of herphysiognomy she added: "Why did you come into this room?"

  She enchanted me. The ardent modulations of the sound, the slight playof the beautiful lips, the still, deep sapphire gleam in those long eyesinherited from the dawn of ages and that seemed always to watchunimaginable things, that underlying faint ripple of gaiety that playedunder all her moods as though it had been a gift from the high gods movedto pity for this lonely mortal, all this within the four walls anddisplayed for me alone gave me the sense of almost intolerable joy. Thewords didn't matter. They had to be answered, of course.

  "I came in for several reasons. One of them is that I didn't know youwere here."

  "Therese didn't tell you?"

  "No."

  "Never talked to you about me?"

  I hesitated only for a moment. "Never," I said. Then I asked in myturn, "Did she tell you I was here?"

  "No," she said.

  "It's very clear she did not mean us to come together again."

  "Neither did I, my dear."

  "What do you mean by speaking like this, in this tone, in these words?You seem to use them as if they were a sort of formula. Am I a dear toyou? Or is anybody? . . . or everybody? . . ."

  She had been for some time raised on her elbow, but then as if somethinghad happened to her vitality she sank down till her head rested again onthe sofa cushion.

  "Why do you try to hurt my feelings?" she asked.

  "For the same reason for which you call me dear at the end of a sentencelike that: for want of something more amusing to do. You don't pretendto make me believe that you do it for any sort of reason that a decentperson would confess to."

  The colour had gone from her face; but a fit of wickedness was on me andI pursued, "What are the motives of your speeches? What prompts youractions? On your own showing your life seems to be a continuous runningaway. You have just run away from Paris. Where will you run to-morrow?What are you everlastingly running from--or is it that you are runningafter something? What is it? A man, a phantom--or some sensation thatyou don't like to own to?"

  Truth to say, I was abashed by the silence which was her only answer tothis sally. I said to myself that I would not let my natural anger, myjust fury be disarmed by any assumption of pathos or dignity. I supposeI was really out of my mind and what in the middle ages would have beencalled "possessed" by an evil spirit. I went on enjoying my ownvillainy.

  "Why aren't you in Tolosa? You ought to be in Tolosa. Isn't Tolosa theproper field for your abilities, for your sympathies, for yourprofusions, for your generosities--the king without a crown, the manwithout a fortune! But here there is nothing worthy of your talents.No, there is no longer anything worth any sort of trouble here. Thereisn't even that ridiculous Monsieur George. I understand that the talkof the coast from here to Cette is that Monsieur George is drowned. Uponmy word I believe he is. And serve him right, too. There's Therese, butI don't suppose that your love for your sister . . ."

  "For goodness' sake don't let her come in and find you here."

  Those words recalled me to myself, exorcised the evil spirit by the mereenchanting power of the voice. They were also impressive by theirsuggestion of something practical, utilitarian, and remote fromsentiment. The evil spirit left me and I remained taken aback slightly.

  "Well," I said, "if you mean that you want me to leave the room I willconfess to you that I can't very well do it yet. But I could lock bothdoors if you don't mind that."

  "Do what you like as long as you keep her out. You two together would betoo much for me to-night. Why don't you go and lock those doors? I havea feeling she is on the prowl."

  I got up at once saying, "I imagine she has gone to bed by this time." Ifelt absolutely calm and responsible. I turned the keys one afteranother so gently that I couldn't hear the click of the locks myself.This done I recrossed the room with measured steps, with downcast eyes,and approaching the couch without raising them from the carpet I sankdown on my knees and leaned my forehead on its edge. That penitentialattitude had but little remorse in it. I detected no movement and heardno sound from her. In one place a bit of the fur coat touched my cheeksoftly, but no forgiving hand came to rest on my bowed head. I onlybreathed deeply the faint scent of violets, her own particular fragranceenveloping my body, penetrating my very heart with an inconceivableintimacy, bringing me closer to her than the closest embrace, and yet sosubtle that I sensed her existence in me only as a great, glowing,indeterminate tenderness, something like the evening light disclosingafter the white passion of the day infinite depths in the colours of thesky and an unsuspected soul of peace in the protean forms of life. I hadnot known such quietness for months; and I detected in myself an immensefatigue, a longing to remain where I was without changing my position tothe end of time. Indeed to remain seemed to me a complete solution forall the problems that life presents--even as to the very death itself.

  Only the unwelcome reflection that this was impossible made me get up atlast with a sigh of deep grief at the end of the dream. But I got upwithout despair. She didn't murmur, she didn't stir. There wassomething august in the stillness of the room. It was a strange peacewhich she shared with me in this unexpected shelter full of disorder inits neglected splendour. What troubled me was the sudden, as it werematerial, consciousness of time passing as water flows. It seemed to methat it was only the tenacity of my sentiment that held that woman'sbody, extended and tranquil above the flood. But when I ventured at lastto look at her face I saw her flushed, her teeth clenched--it wasvisible--her nostrils dilated, and in her narrow, level-glancing eyes alook of inward and frightened ecstasy. The edges of the fur coat hadfallen open and I was moved to turn away. I had the same impression ason the evening we parted that something had happened which I did notunderstand; only this time I had not touched her at all. I really didn'tunderstand. At the slightest whisper I would now have gone out without amurmur, as though that emotion had given her the right to be obeyed. Butthere was no whisper; and for a long time I stood leaning on my arm,looking into the fire and feeling distinctly between the four walls ofthat locked room the unchecked time flow past our two strandedpersonalities.

  And suddenly she spoke. She spoke in that voice that was so profoundlymoving without ever being sad, a little wistful perhaps and always thesupreme expression of her grace. She asked as if nothing had happened:

  "What are you thinking of, _amigo_?"

  I turned about. She was lying on her side, tranquil above the smoothflow of time, again closely wrapped up in her fur, her head resting onthe old-gold sofa cushion bearing like everything else in that room thedecoratively enlaced letters of her monogram; her face a little pale now,with the crimson lobe of her ear under the tawny mist of her loose hair,the lips a little parted, and her glance of melted sapphire level andmotionless, darkened by fatigue.

  "Can I think of anything but you?" I murmured, taking a seat near thefoot of the couch. "Or rather it isn't thinking, it is more like theconsciousness of you always being present in me, complete to the lasthair, to the faintest shade of expression, and that not only when we areapart but when we are together, alone, as close as this. I see you nowlying on this couch but that is only the insensible phantom of the realyou that is in me. And it is the easier for me to feel this because thatimage which others see and call by your name--how am I to know that it isanything else but an enchanting mist? You have always eluded me exceptin one or two moments which seem still more dream-like than the rest.Since I came into this room you have done nothing to destr
oy myconviction of your unreality apart from myself. You haven't offered meyour hand to touch. Is it because you suspect that apart from me you arebut a mere phantom, and that you fear to put it to the test?"

  One of her hands was under the fur and the other under her cheek. Shemade no sound. She didn't offer to stir. She didn't move her eyes, noteven after I had added after waiting for a while,

  "Just what I expected. You are a cold illusion."

  She smiled mysteriously, right away from me, straight at the fire, andthat was all.