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.