Section 16

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detection which is the last word of the highest art. ‘Twenty -five minutes — watch in hand — twenty -five, no more.’ . . . He unclasped and clasped again
his fingers without removing his hands from his stom- ach, and made it infinitely more effective than if he had thrown up his arms to heaven in amazement. . . .
‘All that lot ( tout ce monde) on shore — with their little affairs — nobody left but a guard of seamen ( marins de VEtat) and that interesting corpse (cet interessant cadavre). Twenty -five minutes/ . . . With down-
cast eyes and his head tilted slightly on one side he seemed to roll knowingly on his tongue the savour of a smart bit of work. He persuaded one without any further demonstration that his approval was eminently worth having, and resuming his hardly interrupted immobility, he went on to inform me that, being under orders to make the best of their way to Toulon, they left in two hours’ time, ‘so that (de sorte que ) there are many things in this incident of my life ( dans cet episode de ma vie ) which have remained obscure.”’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak, submitted himself passively to a state of silence, I kept him company; and sud- denly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived for his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he pronounced, 4 Mon Dieu! how the time passes!’ Nothing could have been more commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me with a moment of vision. It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dulness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, under- stand ever so much — everything — in a flash — before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I raised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen him before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his coat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive of his hav- ing been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had overtaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with a few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned face, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those steady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputa- tions, one of those uncounted lives that are buried with-
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out drums and trumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. ‘I am now third lieutenant of the Victorieuse ’ (she was the flagship of the French Pacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from the wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my side of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present anchored in Rushcutters’ Bay. He had ‘remarked’ her, — a pretty little craft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he re- peated, breathing visibly the while, ‘Ah, yes. A little craft painted black — very pretty — very pretty ( tres coquet).9 After a time he twisted his body slowly to face the glass door on our right. ‘A dull town ( triste ville ),’ he observed, staring into the street. It was a brilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls of dust. ‘I descended on shore,’ he said, ‘to stretch my legs a little, but . . .’ He didn’t finish, and
sank into the depths of his repose. ‘Pray — tell me,’ he began, coming up ponderously, ‘what was there at the bottom of this affair — precisely ( au juste)? It is curious. That dead man, for instance — and so on.’
‘“There were living men, too,’ I said; ‘much more curious.’
‘“No doubt, no doubt,’ he agreed half audibly, then, as if after mature consideration, murmured, ‘Evidently.’ I made no difficulty in communicating to him what had interested me most in this affair. It seemed as though he had a right to know : hadn’t he spent thirty hours on board the Patna — had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had he not done
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‘his possible’? He listened to me, looking more priest- like than ever, and with what — probably on account of his downcast eyes — had the appearance of devout con- centration. Once or twice he elevated his eyebrows (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say ‘The devil!’ Once he calmly exclaimed, ‘Ah, bah!’ under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle.
“In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear pro- foundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a ‘very interesting,’ pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my dis- appointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, ‘That’s it. That is it.’ His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. ‘And so that poor young man ran away along with the others,’ he said, with grave tranquillity.
“I don’t know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim’s affair. But somehow this simple state- ment of the matter sounded funny in French. . . .
‘S’est enfui avec les autres ,’ had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an
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expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one’s perplexities are mere child’s-play. ‘Ah! The young, the young,’ he said, indulgently. ‘And after all, one does not die of it.’ ‘Die of what? ’ I asked, swiftly. ‘Of being afraid.’ He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink.
“I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an un- gainly clutch. ‘One is always afraid. One may talk, but , . .’ He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . ‘The fear, the fear — look you — it is always there.’ . . . He touched his breast near a brass
button on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, ‘Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man — and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump {joule ma bosse),’ he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, ‘in all parts of the world; I have known brave men— famous ones! Allez!9 . . . He drank carelessly. . . .
‘Brave — you conceive — in the Service — one has got to be — the trade demands it ( le metier veux ga). Is it not so?’ he appealed to me reasonably. ‘ Eh bien! Each of them — I say each of them, if he were an honest man — bien entendu — would confess that there is a point — there is a point — for the best of us — there is somewhere a point when you let go everything ( vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth — do you see? Given a certain combina- tion of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abomi- nable funk ( un trac Spouvantable) . And even for
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those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same — the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows
what one is talking about — que diable /’ . . . He
had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wis- dom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. ‘It’s evident — parbleu /’ he continued; ‘for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple head- ache or a fit of indigestion ( un derangement d ’ estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance — I have
made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . .’
“He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. ‘No, no; one does not die of it,’ he pronounced, finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. ‘That is so/ he resumed, placidly. ‘Man is born a coward ( L’homme est ne poltron ). It is a difficulty — parbleu! It would be too easy otherwise. But habit -habit — necessity — do you see? — the eye of others — voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . .
“His voice ceased.
“‘That young man — you will observe — had none of these inducements — at least at the moment,’ I remarked.
“He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: ‘I don’t say; I don’t say. The young man in question might have
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had the best dispositions — the best dispositions,’ he repeated, wheezing a little.
“‘I am glad to see you taking a lenient view,’ I said. ‘His own feeling in the matter was — ah! — hopeful, and . . .’
“The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say — no other expression can describe the steady delibera- tion of the act — and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. ‘Pardon,’ he said, punc- tiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed for- ward. ‘Allow me ... I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one’s courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There’s nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . .
But the honour — the honour, monsieur! . . . The
honour . . . that is real — that is! And what life
may be worth when’ ... he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . ‘ when the honour
is gone — ah ga! par exemple — I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion — because — monsieur — I know nothing of it.’
“I had risen, too, and, trying to throw infinite polite- ness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow ! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men’s speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. ‘Very well,’ I said, with a disconcerted smile,
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‘but couldn’t it reduce itself to not being found out?’ He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he iiad changed his mind. ‘This, monsieur, is too fine for me — much above me — I don’t think about it.’ He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed, too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. ‘Servi- teur,’ said the Frenchman. Another scrape. ‘Mon- sieur’ . . . ‘Monsieur.’ . . . The glass door
swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs.
“I sat down again alone and discouraged — dis- couraged about Jim’s case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its ac- tuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business, — what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions — and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. ‘My representative afloat,’ as De Jongh called him. You can’t imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour — unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton — Charley here knew him well — had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady’s-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish
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coast you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can’t make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy — wouldn’t leave the ship — held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I’ve been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, ‘It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fight- ing with his mother.’ The same old chap said that ‘At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking. at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must ’ve been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by and by and give him a show to save her. We daren’t come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sud- den with a lurch to starboard — plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up.’ Poor Bob’s spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put him up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he
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would tiptoe amongst us and say, ‘It’s all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work.’ I don’t know how Jim’s soul ac- commodated itself to the new conditions of his life — I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together — but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy — an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger’s donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well in- deed— except for certain fantastic and violent out- breaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good.