I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his

eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a

vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece

clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you

have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that perversity, you know how

vexing it is--such a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling

faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said

acidly: "Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the

history of Flora de Barral?"

"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I

laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that

are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about

laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them

. . . "

"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and

tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently.

"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of

superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling,

delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are

laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a man's character

often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us,

the majority who are fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel

pleasantly superior."

"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these fine

things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his

artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs together?

Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?"

Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious.

"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he

pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense enough

for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell--neither of them

shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which made the whole

unforgettable in the detail of its progress. And the first surprise came

very soon, when the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of

engagement)--dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels--taken on

board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to his functions in the

galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and

with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel,

he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first

freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board,

who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant

remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel

and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the

poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But

when, after a time, he crossed over to the other side of the deck he

discovered that it was not the captain's head at all. He became aware of

grey hairs curling over the nape of the neck. How could he have made

that mistake? But on board ship away from the land one does not expect

to come upon a stranger.




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