Chance

The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and

social amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his

object being, in his own words, "to glorify the result of six thousand

years' evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners and

feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know. His

poems read like sentimental novels told in verse of a really superior

quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful

country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic

life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive

cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a

handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but

marvellously suave in his manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted

displays must have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering

family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a

mere whim in educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if

disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively

speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the two children)

either from compassion or because women are naturally more enduring,

remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too seized a

chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of

the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A

civil servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to

preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her

father would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such

unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as a perverse

sort of refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's

complete sanity for some considerable time before he died.

Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon

Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that

the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest,

unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self-

reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the

youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a

ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like

a man's shirt, a stand-up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made

their acquaintance one summer in the country, where they were accustomed

to take a cottage for the holidays . . .

At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must

leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the

window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung

and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter

while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving

us no offence and leaving behind an impression as though we had known him

for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life

had something to do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no

thought to seeing him again.