Читать книгу The White Kami - Edward Alden Jewell - Страница 17
ОглавлениеI
Captain Utterbourne was involved with a vague but immensely lucrative corporation calling itself the Hyde Packet Company. The business was tramp freighters—vessels of one or two thousand tons, mostly, with business-like mien, which poked nondescript noses into every corner of the navigable world where commerce was to be scented. The Star of Troy was Captain Utterbourne’s own cherished and particular tramp: a sturdy craft with bulging, broad-beamed bow and very decent living quarters—for the Captain was somewhat particular how he lived. How he happened to be a sea captain was a supreme enigma. It baffled everybody. There hadn’t been a grain of salt in the family until now. But that he was a sea captain had to be accepted as a fact. To tell the truth, that was all you could hope to do with Utterbourne—simply accept him. There was no alternative.
The Hyde offices (despite the prosperity of the stockholders) were just one large dusty room, the walls smoky and cluttered with maps; but it was always a lively place. A good many desks were crowded into it, at one of which, in a modest corner, sat Captain Utterbourne. Men mostly in shirt sleeves kept up a busy drone, abetted by intelligent-looking girls deep in dictation and the clatter of typing. The Captain, however, sat unheeding in the midst of everything.
When Ferdinand King arrived he found Utterbourne absorbed in a sheet of paper before him, upon which he was engaged with a pencil. The caller hesitated a moment, half glancing about for an office boy; but almost at once his presence was perceived, and, flinging down his pencil with a tiny gesture, the Captain rose and held out a hand.
“Come in, please,” he said in a quaint sing-song, his lips parting with a smile which might be called almost insolent were one not at the same time conflictingly sure that the emotion behind it was wholly amiable. “Have a chair. We’re not very sumptuous, since our business doesn’t call for much style.”
When one came into the presence of Captain Utterbourne one seemed coming into the presence of a man about whom strange currents eddied. He wasn’t wholly reassuring—in fact, no one standing before him could feel quite easy or as though his soul was his own. Still, this aura about him had a haunting and insidious attraction, too, so that even though it might prove fatal, one would not care altogether to escape.
King was a little startled to observe that the sheet of paper on which the other had been so diligently at work was covered merely with a lot of scrawled anchors, which the Captain had depicted in a variety of positions: now upright, as though in the act of being lowered, with the stock horizontal and the shank standing perpendicular; again in a position of repose, with the stock and one fluke resting, one assumed, on the bed to the sea. Whenever Utterbourne grew absorbed in anchors it was plain to those who knew him as well as it is ever possible to know a man with a poker face, that he was concentrating on some new enterprise.
The Captain, half sheepishly noticing that his handiwork had been detected, muttered: “No doubt every one has his own unconscious emblem—a stray out of the past, perhaps—h’m?” His lips moved with apparent reluctance, as though it annoyed him to think that nobody, even after all these centuries of progress, had been able to render speech possible without visible effort. He tilted back in his chair somewhat rigidly, his toes just touching the floor as he rocked, and hummed Macdowell’s To a Wild Rose a moment in a mood of vaguely pleasureable detachment. At length, however, there was a reviving “Well, now,” and King leaned a little toward him, prepared to hear unfolded the mysterious substance which had seemed hovering in the air last evening. What was going forward behind that card-player’s mask?
II
The Captain’s little eyes looked quite mild and affectionate, but they also held their tiny glint of fire. He gazed at Ferdinand King in an unwavering, disconcerting way, tapping with his pencil upon the wooden shelf he had pulled out of the desk to form an improvised table between them, and uttering an occasional dreamy “H’m?” But in a moment or so the pencil was laid aside, and he began speaking, his chin nestled cosily in his hands.
“King,” he said, “did you ever hear of Hagen’s Island?”
The other man shook his head, but seemed at the same time to recognize the curious little prelude about maps as hinging here. He waited almost breathlessly.
“Hagen’s Island,” resumed the Captain, “had governments quarreling over it in its time. I don’t doubt but it might once have been quite capable of bringing on a war somewhere. Oh, heaven! the laughter behind it all—behind all life, for that matter, King! H’m?—h’m? I spent a whole dreamy spring afternoon once, with crocuses just blooming outside, going through speeches about far off Hagen’s Island delivered in Parliament. That was in connection with the coaling station project which got under way and then was abandoned, with engineers right on the spot. Maybe it was all politics—I don’t know.” He shrugged.
“The island proved to be too remote. In short, it was a failure. Some newspaper wag dubbed it ‘the football of the Indian Ocean,’ and then the last ripple died out.” He seemed to lose himself a moment, as in a fog at sea; and King, mystified but much interested, waited for him to go on. The narrative was characteristically resumed from a rather startlingly new angle.
“Once upon a time there was a Dutchman—long before the coaling station. His name was Vander Hagen, and his mania was to start an ideal commonwealth. Every generation somebody or other tries it. Isn’t it funny? Vander Hagen had passionate ideas about representation and individual rights. There seems to have been a lot about the Greeks in his plan. Well,” the Captain shrugged, “he died of a broken dream, and was buried on the island where the commonwealth had been tried and found wanting. The remnant of his disciples went back home in a mist of disillusion. A few years later if his name chanced to be mentioned anywhere, people would exclaim: ‘Who was Vander Hagen?’ Isn’t it disillusionizing, King? Isn’t it?”
Utterbourne smiled one of his most enigmatic smiles, and after another of the half quizzical pauses continued: “I found a copy of the Dutchman’s Journal a few years ago in one of those little book stalls along the Seine in Paris. It was an English translation, and on the fly leaf was written: ‘From Daisy to Paul, with compliments of the season.’ He smiled in a flickering way—it was just a little like the play of light and shade beneath a tree in summer.
“Months later, with a cargo of wheat for Madagascar, I began reading the Journal, and a strange—King, an almost uncanny—desire to pay the island a visit came upon me. My people on the Star of Troy thought I was mad. That was a good while ago—they know me better now—h’m? Well, I couldn’t seem to shake that sombre and majestic Dutchman off my back, King. He’d settled, and I knew there was only one way to be rid of him. Besides—h’m?—I’d thought of a little scheme of my own.
“There were reefs—a wicked necklace with a conscience of lead. We found some ruined docks and a spectral derrick—all that remains of the coaling station fiasco—and silence, King. Silence.... Not a soul on the island, of course. Every venture ever started there has fallen through.” And after a moment he murmured: “By the way, King, are you superstitious?”
“No,” the other laughed shortly, beginning just in a hazy manner to piece things together in his mind and feel along toward conclusions.
“Good,” mused Captain Utterbourne, his voice barely audible. “Good. I think we’re making progress, King.” And he gazed at him tenderly, yet with eyes half shut, as when he sat watching and watching while the dancers whirled about them.
