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Within the Tides-Part12_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Most people were deeply touched by the sad story. It was the talk

of a good many days.



But the all-knowing Editor, Renouard's only friend and crony,

wanted to know more than the rest of the world. From professional



incontinence, perhaps, he thirsted for a full cup of harrowing

detail. And when he noticed Renouard's schooner lying in port day



after day he sought the sailing master to learn the reason. The

man told him that such were his instructions. He had been ordered



to lie there a month before returning to Malata. And the month was

nearly up. "I will ask you to give me a passage," said the Editor.



He landed in the morning at the bottom of the garden and found

peace, stillness, sunshine reigning everywhere, the doors and



windows of the bungalowstanding wide open, no sight of a human

being anywhere, the plants growing rank and tall on the deserted



fields. For hours the Editor and the schooner's crew, excited by

the mystery, roamed over the island shouting Renouard's name; and



at last set themselves in grim silence to explore systematically

the uncleared bush and the deeper ravines in search of his corpse.



What had happened? Had he been murdered by the boys? Or had he

simply, capricious and secretive, abandoned his plantation taking



the people with him. It was impossible to tell what had happened.

At last, towards the decline of the day, the Editor and the sailing



master discovered a track of sandals crossing a strip of sandy

beach on the north shore of the bay. Following this track



fearfully, they passed round the spur of the headland, and there on

a large stone found the sandals, Renouard's white jacket, and the



Malay sarong of chequered pattern which the planter of Malata was

well known to wear when going to bathe. These things made a little



heap, and the sailor remarked, after gazing at it in silence -

"Birds have been hovering over this for many a day."



"He's gone bathing and got drowned," cried the Editor in dismay.

"I doubt it, sir. If he had been drowned anywhere within a mile



from the shore the body would have been washed out on the reefs.

And our boats have found nothing so far."



Nothing was ever found - and Renouard's disappearance remained in

the main inexplicable. For to whom could it have occurred that a



man would set out calmly to swim beyond the confines of life - with

a steady stroke - his eyes fixed on a star!



Next evening, from the receding schooner, the Editor looked back

for the last time at the deserted island. A black cloud hung



listlessly over the high rock on the middle hill; and under the

mysterious silence of that shadow Malata lay mournful, with an air



of anguish in the wild sunset, as if remembering the heart that was

broken there.



Dec. 1913.

THE PARTNER



"And that be hanged for a silly yarn. The boatmen here in Westport

have been telling this lie to the summer visitors for years. The



sort that gets taken out for a row at a shilling a head - and asks

foolish questions - must be told something to pass the time away.



D'ye know anything more silly than being pulled in a boat along a

beach? . . . It's like drinking weak lemonade when you aren't



thirsty. I don't know why they do it! They don't even get sick."

A forgotten glass of beer stood at his elbow; the locality was a



small respectable smoking-room of a small respectable hotel, and a

taste for forming chance acquaintances accounts for my sitting up



late with him. His great, flat, furrowed cheeks were shaven; a

thick, square wisp of white hairs hung from his chin; its waggling



gave additional point to his deep utterance; and his general

contempt for mankind with its activities and moralities was



expressed in the rakish set of his big soft hat of black felt with

a large rim, which he kept always on his head.



His appearance was that of an old adventurer, retired after many

unholy experiences in the darkest parts of the earth; but I had



every reason to believe that he had never been outside England.

From a casual remark somebody dropped I gathered that in his early



days he must have been somehow connected with shipping - with ships

in docks. Of individuality he had plenty. And it was this which



attracted my attention at first. But he was not easy to classify,

and before the end of the week I gave him up with the vague



definition, "an imposing old ruffian."

One rainy afternoon, oppressed by infinite boredom, I went into the



smoking-room. He was sitting there in absolute immobility, which




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