Conrad, Joseph, 1857-1924 / 2008-06-27 00:00:00
"By God, it isn't fair!" he cried again. "Don't you ever marry
unless you can chuck the sea first. . . . It isn't fair."
I had no intention to "chuck the sea," and when he left me to go
aboard his ship I felt convinced that I would never marry. While I
was waiting at the steps for Jacobus's boatman, who had gone off
somewhere, the captain of the Hilda joined me, a slender silk
umbrella in his hand and the sharp points of his archaic,
Gladstonian shirt-collar framing a small, clean-shaved, ruddy face.
It was wonderfully fresh for his age, beautifully modelled and lit
up by remarkably clear blue eyes. A lot of white hair, glossy like
spun glass, curled upwards slightly under the brim of his valuable,
ancient, panama hat with a broad black ribbon. In the aspect of
that vivacious, neat, little old man there was something quaintly
angelic and also boyish.
He accosted me, as though he had been in the habit of seeing me
every day of his life from my earliest childhood, with a whimsical
remark on the appearance of a stout negro woman who was sitting
upon a stool near the edge of the quay. Presently he observed
amiably that I had a very pretty little barque.
I returned this civil speech by saying readily:
"Not so pretty as the Hilda.
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