The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  CHAPTER II

  Notwithstanding my misanthropy I had to see a few people on account ofall these Royalist affairs which I couldn't very well drop, and in truthdid not wish to drop. They were my excuse for remaining in Europe, whichsomehow I had not the strength of mind to leave for the West Indies, orelsewhere. On the other hand, my adventurous pursuit kept me in contactwith the sea where I found occupation, protection, consolation, themental relief of grappling with concrete problems, the sanity oneacquires from close contact with simple mankind, a little self-confidenceborn from the dealings with the elemental powers of nature. I couldn'tgive all that up. And besides all this was related to Dona Rita. I had,as it were, received it all from her own hand, from that hand the claspof which was as frank as a man's and yet conveyed a unique sensation.The very memory of it would go through me like a wave of heat. It wasover that hand that we first got into the habit of quarrelling, with theirritability of sufferers from some obscure pain and yet half unconsciousof their disease. Rita's own spirit hovered over the troubled waters ofLegitimity. But as to the sound of the four magic letters of her name Iwas not very likely to hear it fall sweetly on my ear. For instance, thedistinguished personality in the world of finance with whom I had toconfer several times, alluded to the irresistible seduction of the powerwhich reigned over my heart and my mind; which had a mysterious andunforgettable face, the brilliance of sunshine together with theunfathomable splendour of the night as--Madame de Lastaola. That's howthat steel-grey man called the greatest mystery of the universe. Whenuttering that assumed name he would make for himself a guardedly solemnand reserved face as though he were afraid lest I should presume tosmile, lest he himself should venture to smile, and the sacred formalityof our relations should be outraged beyond mending.

  He would refer in a studiously grave tone to Madame de Lastaola's wishes,plans, activities, instructions, movements; or picking up a letter fromthe usual litter of paper found on such men's desks, glance at it torefresh his memory; and, while the very sight of the handwriting wouldmake my lips go dry, would ask me in a bloodless voice whether perchanceI had "a direct communication from--er--Paris lately." And there wouldbe other maddening circumstances connected with those visits. He wouldtreat me as a serious person having a clear view of certaineventualities, while at the very moment my vision could see nothing butstreaming across the wall at his back, abundant and misty, unearthly andadorable, a mass of tawny hair that seemed to have hot sparks tangled init. Another nuisance was the atmosphere of Royalism, of Legitimacy, thatpervaded the room, thin as air, intangible, as though no Legitimist offlesh and blood had ever existed to the man's mind except perhaps myself.He, of course, was just simply a banker, a very distinguished, a veryinfluential, and a very impeccable banker. He persisted also indeferring to my judgment and sense with an over-emphasis called out byhis perpetual surprise at my youth. Though he had seen me many times (Ieven knew his wife) he could never get over my immature age. He himselfwas born about fifty years old, all complete, with his iron-grey whiskersand his bilious eyes, which he had the habit of frequently closing duringa conversation. On one occasion he said to me. "By the by, the Marquisof Villarel is here for a time. He inquired after you the last time hecalled on me. May I let him know that you are in town?"

  I didn't say anything to that. The Marquis of Villarel was the DonRafael of Rita's own story. What had I to do with Spanish grandees? Andfor that matter what had she, the woman of all time, to do with all thevillainous or splendid disguises human dust takes upon itself? All thiswas in the past, and I was acutely aware that for me there was nopresent, no future, nothing but a hollow pain, a vain passion of suchmagnitude that being locked up within my breast it gave me an illusion oflonely greatness with my miserable head uplifted amongst the stars. Butwhen I made up my mind (which I did quickly, to be done with it) to callon the banker's wife, almost the first thing she said to me was that theMarquis de Villarel was "amongst us." She said it joyously. If in herhusband's room at the bank legitimism was a mere unpopulated principle,in her salon Legitimacy was nothing but persons. "_Il m'a cause beaucoupde vous_," she said as if there had been a joke in it of which I ought tobe proud. I slunk away from her. I couldn't believe that the grandeehad talked to her about me. I had never felt myself part of the greatRoyalist enterprise. I confess that I was so indifferent to everything,so profoundly demoralized, that having once got into that drawing-room Ihadn't the strength to get away; though I could see perfectly well myvolatile hostess going from one to another of her acquaintances in orderto tell them with a little gesture, "Look! Over there--in that corner.That's the notorious Monsieur George." At last she herself drove me outby coming to sit by me vivaciously and going into ecstasies over "_cecher_ Monsieur Mills" and that magnificent Lord X; and ultimately, with aperfectly odious snap in the eyes and drop in the voice, dragging in thename of Madame de Lastaola and asking me whether I was really so much inthe confidence of that astonishing person. "_Vous devez bien regretterson depart pour Paris_," she cooed, looking with affected bashfulness ather fan. . . . How I got out of the room I really don't know. There wasalso a staircase. I did not fall down it head first--that much I amcertain of; and I also remember that I wandered for a long time about theseashore and went home very late, by the way of the Prado, giving inpassing a fearful glance at the Villa. It showed not a gleam of lightthrough the thin foliage of its trees.

  I spent the next day with Dominic on board the little craft watching theshipwrights at work on her deck. From the way they went about theirbusiness those men must have been perfectly sane; and I felt greatlyrefreshed by my company during the day. Dominic, too, devoted himself tohis business, but his taciturnity was sardonic. Then I dropped in at thecafe and Madame Leonore's loud "Eh, Signorino, here you are at last!"pleased me by its resonant friendliness. But I found the sparkle of herblack eyes as she sat down for a moment opposite me while I was having mydrink rather difficult to bear. That man and that woman seemed to knowsomething. What did they know? At parting she pressed my handsignificantly. What did she mean? But I didn't feel offended by thesemanifestations. The souls within these people's breasts were notvolatile in the manner of slightly scented and inflated bladders.Neither had they the impervious skins which seem the rule in the fineworld that wants only to get on. Somehow they had sensed that there wassomething wrong; and whatever impression they might have formed forthemselves I had the certitude that it would not be for them a matter ofgrins at my expense.

  That day on returning home I found Therese looking out for me, a veryunusual occurrence of late. She handed me a card bearing the name of theMarquis de Villarel.

  "How did you come by this?" I asked. She turned on at once the tap ofher volubility and I was not surprised to learn that the grandee had notdone such an extraordinary thing as to call upon me in person. A younggentleman had brought it. Such a nice young gentleman, she interjectedwith her piously ghoulish expression. He was not very tall. He had avery smooth complexion (that woman was incorrigible) and a nice, tinyblack moustache. Therese was sure that he must have been an officer _enlas filas legitimas_. With that notion in her head she had asked himabout the welfare of that other model of charm and elegance, CaptainBlunt. To her extreme surprise the charming young gentleman withbeautiful eyes had apparently never heard of Blunt. But he seemed verymuch interested in his surroundings, looked all round the hall, noted thecostly wood of the door panels, paid some attention to the silverstatuette holding up the defective gas burner at the foot of the stairs,and, finally, asked whether this was in very truth the house of the mostexcellent Senora Dona Rita de Lastaola. The question staggered Therese,but with great presence of mind she answered the young gentleman that shedidn't know what excellence there was about it, but that the house washer property, having been given to her by her own sister. At this theyoung gentleman looked both puzzled and angry, turned on his heel, andgot back into his fiacre. Why should people be angry with a poor girl
who had never done a single reprehensible thing in her whole life?

  "I suppose our Rita does tell people awful lies about her poor sister."She sighed deeply (she had several kinds of sighs and this was thehopeless kind) and added reflectively, "Sin on sin, wickedness onwickedness! And the longer she lives the worse it will be. It would bebetter for our Rita to be dead."

  I told "Mademoiselle Therese" that it was really impossible to tellwhether she was more stupid or atrocious; but I wasn't really very muchshocked. These outbursts did not signify anything in Therese. One gotused to them. They were merely the expression of her rapacity and herrighteousness; so that our conversation ended by my asking her whethershe had any dinner ready for me that evening.

  "What's the good of getting you anything to eat, my dear young Monsieur,"she quizzed me tenderly. "You just only peck like a little bird. Muchbetter let me save the money for you." It will show thesuper-terrestrial nature of my misery when I say that I was quitesurprised at Therese's view of my appetite. Perhaps she was right. Icertainly did not know. I stared hard at her and in the end she admittedthat the dinner was in fact ready that very moment.

  The new young gentleman within Therese's horizon didn't surprise me verymuch. Villarel would travel with some sort of suite, a couple ofsecretaries at least. I had heard enough of Carlist headquarters to knowthat the man had been (very likely was still) Captain General of theRoyal Bodyguard and was a person of great political (and domestic)influence at Court. The card was, under its social form, a mere commandto present myself before the grandee. No Royalist devoted by conviction,as I must have appeared to him, could have mistaken the meaning. I putthe card in my pocket and after dining or not dining--I really don'tremember--spent the evening smoking in the studio, pursuing thoughts oftenderness and grief, visions exalting and cruel. From time to time Ilooked at the dummy. I even got up once from the couch on which I hadbeen writhing like a worm and walked towards it as if to touch it, butrefrained, not from sudden shame but from sheer despair. By and byTherese drifted in. It was then late and, I imagine, she was on her wayto bed. She looked the picture of cheerful, rustic innocence and startedpropounding to me a conundrum which began with the words:

  "If our Rita were to die before long . . ."

  She didn't get any further because I had jumped up and frightened her byshouting: "Is she ill? What has happened? Have you had a letter?"

  She had had a letter. I didn't ask her to show it to me, though Idaresay she would have done so. I had an idea that there was no meaningin anything, at least no meaning that mattered. But the interruption hadmade Therese apparently forget her sinister conundrum. She observed mewith her shrewd, unintelligent eyes for a bit, and then with the fatuousremark about the Law being just she left me to the horrors of the studio.I believe I went to sleep there from sheer exhaustion. Some time duringthe night I woke up chilled to the bone and in the dark. These werehorrors and no mistake. I dragged myself upstairs to bed past theindefatigable statuette holding up the ever-miserable light. Theblack-and-white hall was like an ice-house.

  The main consideration which induced me to call on the Marquis ofVillarel was the fact that after all I was a discovery of Dona Rita's,her own recruit. My fidelity and steadfastness had been guaranteed byher and no one else. I couldn't bear the idea of her being criticized byevery empty-headed chatterer belonging to the Cause. And as, apart fromthat, nothing mattered much, why, then--I would get this over.

  But it appeared that I had not reflected sufficiently on all theconsequences of that step. First of all the sight of the Villa lookingshabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not containing her any longer) wasso perturbing that I very nearly went away from the gate. Then when Igot in after much hesitation--being admitted by the man in the greenbaize apron who recognized me--the thought of entering that room, out ofwhich she was gone as completely as if she had been dead, gave me such anemotion that I had to steady myself against the table till the faintnesswas past. Yet I was irritated as at a treason when the man in the baizeapron instead of letting me into the Pompeiian dining-room crossed thehall to another door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Louis XVrather--that Villa was like a _Salade Russe_ of styles) and introduced meinto a big, light room full of very modern furniture. The portrait _enpied_ of an officer in a sky-blue uniform hung on the end wall. Theofficer had a small head, a black beard cut square, a robust body, andleaned with gauntleted hands on the simple hilt of a straight sword.That striking picture dominated a massive mahogany desk, and, in front ofthis desk, a very roomy, tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet. Ithought I had been announced into an empty room till glancing along theextremely loud carpet I detected a pair of feet under the armchair.

  I advanced towards it and discovered a little man, who had made no soundor movement till I came into his view, sunk deep in the green velvet. Healtered his position slowly and rested his hollow, black, quietly burningeyes on my face in prolonged scrutiny. I detected something comminatoryin his yellow, emaciated countenance, but I believe now he was simplystartled by my youth. I bowed profoundly. He extended a meagre littlehand.

  "Take a chair, Don Jorge."

  He was very small, frail, and thin, but his voice was not languid, thoughhe spoke hardly above his breath. Such was the envelope and the voice ofthe fanatical soul belonging to the Grand-master of Ceremonies andCaptain General of the Bodyguard at the Headquarters of the LegitimistCourt, now detached on a special mission. He was all fidelity,inflexibility, and sombre conviction, but like some great saints he hadvery little body to keep all these merits in.

  "You are very young," he remarked, to begin with. "The matters on whichI desired to converse with you are very grave."

  "I was under the impression that your Excellency wished to see me atonce. But if your Excellency prefers it I will return in, say, sevenyears' time when I may perhaps be old enough to talk about gravematters."

  He didn't stir hand or foot and not even the quiver of an eyelid provedthat he had heard my shockingly unbecoming retort.

  "You have been recommended to us by a noble and loyal lady, in whom HisMajesty--whom God preserve--reposes an entire confidence. God willreward her as she deserves and you, too, Senor, according to thedisposition you bring to this great work which has the blessing (here hecrossed himself) of our Holy Mother the Church."

  "I suppose your Excellency understands that in all this I am not lookingfor reward of any kind."

  At this he made a faint, almost ethereal grimace.

  "I was speaking of the spiritual blessing which rewards the service ofreligion and will be of benefit to your soul," he explained with a slighttouch of acidity. "The other is perfectly understood and your fidelityis taken for granted. His Majesty--whom God preserve--has been alreadypleased to signify his satisfaction with your services to the most nobleand loyal Dona Rita by a letter in his own hand."

  Perhaps he expected me to acknowledge this announcement in some way,speech, or bow, or something, because before my immobility he made aslight movement in his chair which smacked of impatience. "I am afraid,Senor, that you are affected by the spirit of scoffing and irreverencewhich pervades this unhappy country of France in which both you and I arestrangers, I believe. Are you a young man of that sort?"

  "I am a very good gun-runner, your Excellency," I answered quietly.

  He bowed his head gravely. "We are aware. But I was looking for themotives which ought to have their pure source in religion."

  "I must confess frankly that I have not reflected on my motives," I said."It is enough for me to know that they are not dishonourable and thatanybody can see they are not the motives of an adventurer seeking somesordid advantage."

  He had listened patiently and when he saw that there was nothing more tocome he ended the discussion.

  "Senor, we should reflect upon our motives. It is salutary for ourconscience and is recommended (he crossed himself) by our Holy Mother theChurch. I have here certain letters f
rom Paris on which I would consultyour young sagacity which is accredited to us by the most loyal DonaRita."

  The sound of that name on his lips was simply odious. I was convincedthat this man of forms and ceremonies and fanatical royalism wasperfectly heartless. Perhaps he reflected on his motives; but it seemedto me that his conscience could be nothing else but a monstrous thingwhich very few actions could disturb appreciably. Yet for the credit ofDona Rita I did not withhold from him my young sagacity. What he thoughtof it I don't know. The matters we discussed were not of course of highpolicy, though from the point of view of the war in the south they wereimportant enough. We agreed on certain things to be done, and finally,always out of regard for Dona Rita's credit, I put myself generally athis disposition or of any Carlist agent he would appoint in his place;for I did not suppose that he would remain very long in Marseilles. Hegot out of the chair laboriously, like a sick child might have done. Theaudience was over but he noticed my eyes wandering to the portrait and hesaid in his measured, breathed-out tones:

  "I owe the pleasure of having this admirable work here to the graciousattention of Madame de Lastaola, who, knowing my attachment to the royalperson of my Master, has sent it down from Paris to greet me in thishouse which has been given up for my occupation also through hergenerosity to the Royal Cause. Unfortunately she, too, is touched by theinfection of this irreverent and unfaithful age. But she is young yet.She is young."

  These last words were pronounced in a strange tone of menace as though hewere supernaturally aware of some suspended disasters. With his burningeyes he was the image of an Inquisitor with an unconquerable soul in thatfrail body. But suddenly he dropped his eyelids and the conversationfinished as characteristically as it had begun: with a slow, dismissinginclination of the head and an "Adios, Senor--may God guard you fromsin."