Chance

"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them--nothing of the

prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory

natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built

no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these

"immense sums." He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in

an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt perfect

satisfaction to the management. They had twice raised his rent to show I

suppose their high sense of his distinguished patronage. He had bought

for himself out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers neither

adulation nor love, neither splendour nor comfort. There was something

perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the

gratification of even the mere show of power. In the days when he was

most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his origins

clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without

ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of

men, because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness

of mind to make him desire them with the will power of a masterful

adventurer . . . "

"You seem to have studied the man," I observed.

"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No! Not studied. I had no

opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told

you of. But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of

seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very

deficiencies for they made of him something quite unlike one's

preconceived ideas. There were also very few materials accessible to a

man like me to form a judgment from. But in such a case I verify believe

that a little is as good as a feast--perhaps better. If one has a taste

for that kind of thing the merest starting-point becomes a coign of

vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted verisimilitudes one

arrives at truth--or very near the truth--as near as any circumstantial

evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I

understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the

crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills,

"The Thrift Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra

special"--blazing fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the

grave tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the

national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A

pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before

that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal type of

face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced by artificial

light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was said by

the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator of

"the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale." I don't

understand these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with

accounts, cooked balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he

ought to have known himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough

of other things, highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for

himself seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its way

outside met with a good reception. A small mob composed mainly of people

who themselves did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened

by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets amused itself by cheering

in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that I remember. I

happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I had

spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the

fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a

new ship. They interest me like charming young persons.