"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.