Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim jest and grim earnest:
“Perhaps you didn’t know that my character is upon the whole rather vindictive.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I said with a grin. “That’s rather unusual for a sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the world.”
“H’m! Simple souls,” Marlow muttered moodily. “Want of opportunity. The world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it’s towards women that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, as of right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. There are so very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking—in a small way; in a very small way. You needn’t stare as though I were breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring monster. I am not even what is technically called ‘a brute.’ I hope there’s enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements of some really good woman eventually—some day … Some day. Why do you gasp? You don’t suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That supposition would be offensive …”
“I wouldn’t dream of offending you,” I said.
“Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. Fyne. That lady’s little finger was none of my legal property. I had not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be wound round as much as his backbone could stand—or even more, for all I cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the spokes of another woman’s wheel.
“She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding declaration—because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of teasing—I said that I was really doing my best. And being a physiognomist …
“ ‘Being what?’ she interrupted me.
“ ‘A physiognomist,’ I repeated raising my voice a little. ‘A physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You want to interfere—do you not?’
“Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in her life. The late subtle poet’s method of making himself unpleasant was merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been gentlemanly creatures. The girlfriends sat at her feet. How could she recognize my intention. She didn’t know what to make of my tone.
“ ‘Are you serious in what you say?’ she asked slowly. And it was touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt myself relenting.
“ ‘No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know I was expected to be serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and therefore I am not serious. It’s true that most sciences are farcical except those which teach us how to put things together.’
“ ‘The question is how to keep these two people apart,’ she struck in. She had recovered. I admired the quickness of women’s wit. Mental agility is a rare perfection. And aren’t they agile! Aren’t they—just! And tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won’t shake them off the branch. In fact the more you shake … But only look at the charm of contradictory perfections! No wonder men give in—generally. I won’t say I was actually charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was not delighted with her. What affected me was not what she displayed but something which she could not conceal. And that was emotion—nothing less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory—but not its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled faintly; and as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes were glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that Mrs. Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of her profound distress. ‘By Jove she’s desperate too,’ I thought. This discovery was followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their supreme interest aroused only by fighting with each other about some man: a lover, a son, a brother.
“ ‘But do you think there’s time yet to do anything?’ I asked.
“She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself from the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty-eight hours since she had followed him to London … I am no great clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special licences. We couldn’t tell what might have happened today already.
