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PART II - THE KNIGHT: CHAPTER ONE - THE FERNDALE
I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in
stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last,
one evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my
rooms.
I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not
occurred to me till after he had gone away.
"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora
de Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of
the Ferndale--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old ship-
keeper--may not have been Flora."
"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in
touch with Mr. Powell."
"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since
when?"
"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the
inn. I slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for
breakfast; and after the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have
been yarning with over-night had worn off, we discovered a liking
for each other."
As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of
them, I was not surprised.
"And so you kept in touch," I said.
"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the
river I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an
equality. Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever
wanted to avoid me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out
of the river in a very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land
anywhere and bolt inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You
can't carry that in your hand like a suit-case.
"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had
given him up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired
Dingle's decked boat. There was just the accommodation in her to
sleep a man and a dog. But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's
dog who saved Flora de Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had.
I was rather lonely cruising about; but that, too, on the river has
its charm, sometimes. I chased the mystery of the vanishing Powell
dreamily, looking about me at the ships, thinking of the girl Flora,
of life's chances--and, do you know, it was very simple."
"What was very simple?" I asked innocently.
"The mystery."
"They generally are that," I said.
Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner.
"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's disappearances.
The fellow used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the
Essex shore. These creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had
studied the chart pretty carefully I did not know of their
existence. One afternoon, I made Powell's boat out, heading into
the shore. By the time I got close to the mud-flat his craft had
disappeared inland. But I could see the mouth of the creek by then.
The tide being on the turn I took the risk of getting stuck in the
mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to guide me was the top of
the roof of some sort of small building. I got in more by good luck
than by good management. The sun had set some time before; my boat
glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy banks; on
both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly
still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and
disappeared in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up
with the building the roof of which I had seen from the river. It
looked like a small barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank
in front of it and supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf.
All this was black in the falling dusk, and I could just distinguish
the whitish ruts of a cart-track stretching over the marsh towards
the higher land, far away. Not a sound was to be heard. Against
the low streak of light in the sky I could see the mast of Powell's
cutter moored to the bank some twenty yards, no more, beyond that
black barn or whatever it was. I hailed him with a loud shout. Got
no answer. After making fast my boat just astern, I walked along
the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being so much bigger than mine
she was aground already. Her sails were furled; the slide of her
scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was gone. He had
walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a
single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human
habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell denser over the land
I couldn't see the glimmer of a single light. However, I supposed
that there must be some village or hamlet not very far away; or only
one of these mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most
unexpected and lonely places.
"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some
coffee over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched
myself aft, to smoke and gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere
shadow, formless and silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up
from somewhere, quite shadowy too. He came smartly to the very edge
of the bank as though he meant to step on board, stretched his
muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily once, and walked off
contemptuously into the darkness from which he had come. I had not
expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's thought would have
shown me that there must be lots of cattle and sheep on that marsh.
Then everything became still as before. I might have imagined
myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined smoking a
sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had become
intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard
firm, quick footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along
the cart-track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks.
That somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped
short, having made out that there were two masts alongside the bank
where he had left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass.
When I spoke to him he was astonished.
"Who would have thought of seeing you here!" he exclaimed, after
returning my good evening.
"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true."
"You knew I was here?" he exclaimed.
"Of course," I said. "I tell you I came in for company."
"He is a really good fellow," went on Marlow. "And his capacity for
astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most
matter-of-fact manner that he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I
have here enough supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in
the crook of his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you may
guess. His cutter has a very neat little cabin, quite big enough
for two men not only to sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left the
scuttle wide open, of course. As to his provisions for supper, they
were not of a luxurious kind. He complained that the shops in the
village were miserable. There was a big village within a mile and a
half. It struck me he had been very long doing his shopping; but
naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to talk at all except for
the purpose of setting him going."
"And did you set him going?" I asked.
"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable
expression which somehow assured me of his success better than an
air of triumph could have done.
"You made him talk?" I said after a silence.
"Yes, I made him . . . about himself."
"And to the point?"
"If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was about the voyage of
the Ferndale, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that
voyage, which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de
Barral. The man himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty
of wonder not very great. He's one of those people who form no
theories about facts. Straightforward people seldom do. Neither
have they much penetration. But in this case it did not matter. I-
-we--have already the inner knowledge. We know the history of Flora
de Barral. We know something of Captain Anthony. We have the
secret of the situation. The man was intoxicated with the pity and
tenderness of his part. Oh yes! Intoxicated is not too strong a
word; for you know that love and desire take many disguises. I
believe that the girl had been frank with him, with the frankness of
women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, because so much of
their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am not indulging in
cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things. And moreover she
could not have spoken with a certain voice in the face of his
impetuosity, because she did not have time to understand either the
state of her feelings, or the precise nature of what she was doing.
Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear
her distinctly. I don't mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear
no! But he had no training in the usual conventions, and we must
remember that he had no experience whatever of women. He could only
have an ideal conception of his position. An ideal is often but a
flaming vision of reality.
To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so
irreverently, wound up to a high pitch by his wife's interpretation
of the girl's letter. He enters with his talk of meanness and
cruelty, like a bucket of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But
the effects of a bucket of water are diverse. They depend on the
kind of flame. A mere blaze of dry straw, of course . . . but there
can be no question of straw there. Anthony of the Ferndale was not,
could not have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of a man. There are
flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky-high.
We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the
hesitating girl went up at last and opened the door of that room
where our man, I am certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor
cold; whatever else he might have been.
It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of
humiliation, of exasperation, "Oh, it's you! Why are you here? If
I am so odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I
give you back your word." But then, don't you see, it could not
have been that. I have the practical certitude that soon afterwards
they went together in a hansom to see the ship--as agreed. That was
my reason for saying that Flora de Barral did go to sea . . . "
"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even without that--if,
as you seem to think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had
a sort of perversely seductive charm, making its way through his
compassion to his senses (and everything is possible)--then such
words could not have been spoken."
"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed Marlow.
"However, a plain fact settles it. They went off together to see
the ship."
"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?" I
inquired.
"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances
upstairs there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps nothing was said. But
no man comes out of such a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without
showing some traces of it. And you may be sure that a girl so
bruised all over would feel the slightest touch of anything
resembling coldness. She was mistrustful; she could not be
otherwise; for the energy of evil is so much more forcible than the
energy of good that she could not help looking still upon her
abominable governess as an authority. How could one have expected
her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long domination? She
could not help believing what she had been told; that she was in
some mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly true--TO
HER. The oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only other
people did not find her out at once . . . I would not go so far as
to say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly possible.
But then haven't the most flattered, the most conceited of us their
moments of doubt? Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be
lucky beings in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves.
For my own part I'll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came
to my knowledge that a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain
transaction--a clever fellow whom I really despised--was going
around telling people that I was a consummate hypocrite. He could
know nothing of it. It suited his humour to say so. I had given
him no ground for that particular calumny. Yet to this day there
are moments when it comes into my mind, and involuntarily I ask
myself, 'What if it were true?' It's absurd, but it has on one or
two occasions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was not an
impressionable ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact measure
of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before. He had never been
for me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess to
Flora de Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy
of a malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks
into our very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more
astounded than convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick
Anthony. She let herself be carried along by a mysterious force
which her person had called into being, as her father had been
carried away out of his depth by the unexpected power of successful
advertising.
They went on board that morning. The Ferndale had just come to her
loading berth. The only living creature on board was the ship-
keeper--whether the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell,
or another, I don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking
over the side, saw, in his own words, 'the captain come sailing
round the corner of the nearest cargo-shed, in company with a girl.'
He lowered the accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . "
"How do you know all this?" I interrupted.
Marlow interjected an impatient:
"You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck
and stood stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led
her aft. The ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys
of all the cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered
him to open all the doors, every blessed door; state-rooms,
passages, pantry, fore-cabin--and then sent him away.
"The Ferndale had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a
passage leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its
sumptuosity slightly tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of
roominess and comfort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging
lamps hung, and everything in its place, even to the silver on the
sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened out of it, one on each
side of the rudder casing. These two cabins communicated through a
small bathroom between them, and one was fitted up as the captain's
state-room. The other was vacant, and furnished with arm-chairs and
a round table, more like a room on shore, except for the long curved
settee following the shape of the ship's stern. In a dim inclined
mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of a pale-faced girl in
a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, shadowy, as if
immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself in those
surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange.
Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the
other cabins. He talked all the time loudly in a voice she seemed
to have known extremely well for a long time; and yet, she
reflected, she had not heard it often in her life. What he was
saying she did not quite follow. He was speaking of comparatively
indifferent things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it round her
like a caress. And when he stopped she could hear, alarming in the
sudden silence, the precipitated beating of her heart.
The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and
trying to keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of
the open doors with skill and prudence, he could see the captain and
"that girl" the captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing
her round very thoroughly. Through the whole length of the passage,
far away aft in the perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had
interesting glimpses of them as they went in and out of the various
cabins, crossing from side to side, remaining invisible for a time
in one or another of the state-rooms, and then reappearing again in
the distance. The girl, always following the captain, had her
sunshade in her hands. Mostly she would hang her head, but now and
then she would look up. They had a lot to say to each other, and
seemed to forget they weren't alone in the ship. He saw the captain
put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing himself with a
certain zest for what might follow, when the "old man" seemed to
recollect himself, and came striding down all the length of the
saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight,
as you may believe, and heard the captain slam the inner door of the
passage. After that disappointment the ship-keeper waited
resentfully for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much
sooner than he had expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As
before she did not look round. She didn't look at anything; and she
seemed to be in such a hurry to get ashore that she made for the
gangway and started down the ladder without waiting for the captain.
What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression
of the captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-
keeper, without notice, without an order, without so much as a look.
The captain had never done so before. Always had a nod and a
pleasant word for a man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a
conclusion unfavourable to the strange girl. He gave them time to
get down on the wharf before crossing the deck to steal one more
look at the pair over the rail. The captain took hold of the girl's
arm just before a couple of railway trucks drawn by a horse came
rolling along and hid them from the ship-keeper's sight for good.
Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale
of the visit, and expressed himself about the girl "who had got hold
of the captain" disparagingly. She didn't look healthy, he
explained. "Shabby clothes, too," he added spitefully.
The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for
several years, and had won for himself in the course of many long
voyages, a footing of familiarity, which was to be expected with a
man of Anthony's character. But in that slowly-grown intimacy of
the sea, which in its duration and solitude had its unguarded
moments, no words had passed, even of the most casual, to prepare
him for the vision of his captain associated with any kind of girl.
His impression had been that women did not exist for Captain
Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl! A girl! What did he want
with a girl? Bringing her on board and showing her round the cabin!
That was really a little bit too much. Captain Anthony ought to
have known better.
Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt disappointed;
almost disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old
ship-keeper set talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to
think of that insignificant bit of foolishness no more; for it
diminished Captain Anthony in his eyes of a jealously devoted
subordinate.
Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in
the forefront of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in
the forefront of all men. We may suppose that these groups were not
very large. He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling
which caused these two people to partly eclipse the rest of mankind
were of course not similar; though in time he had acquired the
conviction that he was "taking care" of them both. The "old lady"
of course had to be looked after as long as she lived. In regard to
Captain Anthony, he used to say that: why should he leave him? It
wasn't likely that he would come across a better sailor or a better
man or a more comfortable ship. As to trying to better himself in
the way of promotion, commands were not the sort of thing one picked
up in the streets, and when it came to that, Captain Anthony was as
likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in the world.
From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short, thick black-
haired man, bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders,
his staring prominent eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather
apoplectic appearance. In repose, his congested face had a
humorously melancholy expression.
The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been
chased forward with the admonition to mind his own business and not
to chatter about what did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under
the poop. He opened one door after another; and, in the saloon, in
the captain's state-room and everywhere, he stared anxiously as if
expecting to see on the bulkheads, on the deck, in the air,
something unusual--sign, mark, emanation, shadow--he hardly knew
what--some subtle change wrought by the passage of a girl. But
there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied stern cabin and spent
some time there unscrewing the two stern ports. In the absence of
all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away. With a last
glance round he came out and found himself in the presence of his
captain advancing from the other end of the saloon.
Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't to be seen. The
captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the
mate said, 'I was giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the
captain, his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the
table and asked in his kind way: 'How did you find your mother,
Franklin?'--'The old lady's first-rate, sir, thank you.' And then
they had nothing to say to each other. It was a strange and
disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, just back from leave, the ship
just come to her loading berth, the captain just come on board, and
apparently nothing to say! The several questions he had been
anxious to ask as to various things which had to be done had slipped
out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing to say.
The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his
state-room and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for
a moment and then started slowly to go on deck. But before he had
time to reach the other end of the saloon he heard himself called by
name. He turned round. The captain was staring from the doorway of
his state-room. Franklin said, "Yes, sir." But the captain,
silent, leaned a little forward grasping the door handle. So he,
Franklin, walked aft keeping his eyes on him. When he had come up
quite close he said again, "Yes, sir?" interrogatively. Still
silence. The mate didn't like to be stared at in that manner, a
manner quite new in his captain, with a defiant and self-conscious
stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice it.
Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong,
and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank:
"What's wrong, sir?"
The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare
changed to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very
uncomfortable, but the captain asked negligently:
"What makes you think that there's something wrong?"
"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself, sir," Franklin
owned up.
"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye," said the captain in
such an aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself.
"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know
you a bit by this time. I could see there was something wrong
directly you came on board."
"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more than six years
together, it is true, but I didn't know you for a reader of faces.
You are not a correct reader though. It's very far from being
wrong. You understand? As far from being wrong as it can very well
be. It ought to teach you not to make rash surmises. You should
leave that to the shore people. They are great hands at spying out
something wrong. I dare say they know what they have made of the
world. A dam' poor job of it and that's plain. It's a confoundedly
ugly place, Mr. Franklin. You don't know anything of it? Well--no,
we sailors don't. Only now and then one of us runs against
something cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair stand on end.
And when you do see a piece of their wickedness you find that to set
it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you back to
tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that
sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making
alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't loaf.
There isn't much time."
Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the
wickedness of the solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible
waters on which he and his captain had dwelt all their lives in
happy innocence. What he could not understand was why it should
have been delivered, and what connection it could have with such a
matter as the alterations to be carried out in the cabin. The work
did not seem to him to be called for in such a hurry. What was the
use of altering anything? It was a very good accommodation,
spacious, well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned plan, and with
its decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, a touch
of gilding here and there, was all that was necessary. As to
comfort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He resented
the notion of change; but he said dutifully that he would keep his
eye on the workmen if the captain would only let him know what was
the nature of the work he had ordered to be done.
"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for you as I
go ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there
was no more to hear, and made a movement to leave the saloon. But
the captain continued after a slight pause, "You will be surprised,
no doubt, when you look at it. There'll be a good many alterations.
It's on account of a lady coming with us. I am going to get
married, Mr. Franklin!"
Content of PART II - THE KNIGHT CHAPTER ONE - THE FERNDALE [Joseph Conrad's novel: Chance]
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Read next: PART II - THE KNIGHT: CHAPTER TWO - YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS
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