The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and
social amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his
object being, in his own words, "to glorify the result of six thousand
years' evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners and
feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know. His
poems read like sentimental novels told in verse of a really superior
quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful
country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic
life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive
cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a
handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but
marvellously suave in his manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted
displays must have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering
family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a
mere whim in educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if
disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively
speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the two children)
either from compassion or because women are naturally more enduring,
remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too seized a
chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of
the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A
civil servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to
preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her
father would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such
unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as a perverse
sort of refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's
complete sanity for some considerable time before he died.
Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon
Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that
the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest,
unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self-
reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the
youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a
ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like
a man's shirt, a stand-up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made
their acquaintance one summer in the country, where they were accustomed
to take a cottage for the holidays . . .
At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must
leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the
window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung
and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter
while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving
us no offence and leaving behind an impression as though we had known him
for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life
had something to do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no
thought to seeing him again.