Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long.
"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy
to find any week-end," he remarked ringing the bell so that we might
settle up with the waiter.
* * * * *
Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance
acquaintance. He confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort
of curiosity. I flatter myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity.
Curiosity about daily facts, about daily things, about daily men. It is
the most respectable faculty of the human mind--in fact I cannot conceive
the uses of an incurious mind. It would be like a chamber perpetually
locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell seemed to have given
us already a complete insight into his personality such as it was; a
personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries of
fate, but essentially simple in itself.
Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity
was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way
further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes,
in the country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed with
Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it to some purpose, to
such purpose that to me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of
its nature. It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are
not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with
some surprise: "But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony."
"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn
little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's
brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just arrived in London
from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming
down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should
find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference to our common
calling, added little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if
the Mercantile Marine were a secret society.
You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in
their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town
I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with
Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early
enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat
about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even
the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of
their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some
insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid
teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which
was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar
self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very
capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the
children not her own but only entrusted to her calm, efficient,
unemotional care. One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she
called him John it surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The
atmosphere of that holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull.
Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in
the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend.