Notes on My Books

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But my objector was not placated. These were good reasons for not
writing at all--not a defence of what stood written already, he said.

I admit that almost anything, anything in the world, would serve as a
good reason for not writing at all. But since I have written them, all I
want to say in their defence is that these memories put down without any
regard for established conventions have not been thrown off without
system and purpose. They have their hope and their aim. The hope that
from the reading of these pages there may emerge at last the vision of a
personality; the man behind the books so fundamentally dissimilar as,
for instance, "Almayer's Folly" and "The Secret Agent," and yet a
coherent, justifiable personality both in its origin and in its action.
This is the hope. The immediate aim, closely associated with the hope,
is to give the record of personal memories by presenting faithfully the
feelings and sensations connected with the writing of my first book and
with my first contact with the sea.

In the purposely mingled resonance of this double strain a friend here
and there will perhaps detect a subtle accord.

J. C.

TWIXT LAND AND SEA

The only bond between these three stories is, so to speak, geographical,
for their scene, be it land, be it sea, is situated in the same region
which may be called the region of the Indian Ocean with its off-shoots
and prolongations north of the equator even as far as the Gulf of Siam.
In point of time they belong to the period immediately after the
publication of that novel with the awkward title "Under Western Eyes"
and, as far as the life of the writer is concerned, their appearance in
a volume marks a definite change in the fortunes of his fiction. For
there is no denying the fact that "Under Western Eyes" found no favour
in the public eye, whereas the novel called "Chance" which followed
"Twixt Land and Sea" was received on its first appearance by many more
readers than any other of my books.

This volume of three tales was also well received, publicly and
privately and from a publisher's point of view. This little success was
a most timely tonic for my enfeebled bodily frame. For this may indeed
be called the book of a man's convalescence, at least as to
three-fourths of it; because the Secret Sharer, the middle story, was
written much earlier than the other two.

For in truth the memories of "Under Western Eyes" are associated with
the memory of a severe illness which seemed to wait like a tiger in the
jungle on the turn of a path to jump on me the moment the last words of
that novel were written. The memory of an illness is very much like the
memory of a nightmare. On emerging from it in a much enfeebled state I
was inspired to direct my tottering steps towards the Indian Ocean, a
complete change of surroundings and atmosphere from the Lake of Geneva,
as nobody would deny. Begun so languidly and with such a fumbling hand
that the first twenty pages or more had to be thrown into the
waste-paper basket, A Smile of Fortune, the most purely Indian Ocean
story of the three, has ended by becoming what the reader will see. I
will only say for myself that i have been patted on the back for it by
most unexpected people, personally unknown to me, the chief of them of
course being the editor of a popular illustrated magazine who published
it serially in one mighty instalment. Who will dare say after this that
the change of air had not been an immense success?

The origins of the middle story, The Secret Sharer, are quite other. It
was written much earlier and was published first in _Harper's Magazine_,
during the early part, I think, of 1911. Or perhaps the latter part? My
memory on that point is hazy. The basic fact of the tale I had in my
possession for a good many years. It was in truth the common possession
of the whole fleet of merchant ships trading to India, China, and
Australia: a great company the last years of which coincided with my
first years on the wider seas. The fact itself happened on board a very
distinguished member of it, _Cutty Sark_ by name and belonging to Mr.
Willis, a notable ship-owner in his day, one of the kind (they are all
underground now) who used personally to see his ships start on their
voyages to those distant shores where they showed worthily the honoured
house-flag of their owner. I am glad I was not too late to get at
least one glimpse of Mr. Willis on a very wet and gloomy morning
watching from the pier head of the New South Dock one of his clippers
starting on a China voyage--an imposing figure of a man under the
invariable white hat so well known in the Port of London, waiting till
the head of his ship had swung down-stream before giving her a dignified
wave of a big gloved hand. For all I know it may have been the _Cutty
Sark_ herself though certainly not on that fatal voyage. I do not know
the date of the occurrence on which the scheme of The Secret Sharer is
founded; it came to light and even got into newspapers about the middle
eighties, though I had heard of it before, as it were privately, among
the officers of the great wool fleet in which my first years in deep
water were served. It came to light under circumstances dramatic enough,
I think, but which have nothing to do with my story. In the more
specially maritime part of my writings this bit of presentation may take
its place as one of my two Calm-pieces. For, if there is to be any
classification by subjects, I have done two Storm-pieces in "The Nigger
of the _Narcissus_" and in "Typhoon"; and two Calm-pieces: this one and
"The Shadow-Line," a book which belongs to a later period.

Notwithstanding their autobiographical form the above two stories are
not the record of personal experience. Their quality, such as it is,
depends on something larger if less precise: on the character, vision
and sentiment of the first twenty independent years of my life. And the
same may be said of the Freya of the Seven Isles. I was considerably
abused for writing that story on the ground of its cruelty, both in
public prints and private letters. I remember one from a man in America
who was quite furiously angry. He told me with curses and imprecations
that I had no right to write such an abominable thing which, he said,
had gratuitously and intolerably harrowed his feelings. It was a very
interesting letter to read. Impressive too. I carried it for some days
in my pocket. Had I the right? The sincerity of the anger impressed me.
Had I the right? Had I really sinned as he said or was it only that
man's madness? Yet there was a method in his fury.... I composed in my
mind a violent reply, a reply of mild argument, a reply of lofty
detachment; but they never got on paper in the end and I have forgotten
their phrasing. The very letter of the angry man has got lost somehow;
and nothing remains now but the pages of the story which I cannot recall
and would not recall if I could.

But I am glad to think that the two women in this book: Alice, the
sullen, passive victim of her fate, and the actively individual Freya,
so determined to be the mistress of her own destiny, must have evoked
some sympathies because of all my volumes of short stories this was the
one for which there was the greatest immediate demand.

J. C.

1920.

CHANCE

"Chance" is one of my novels that shortly after having been begun were
laid aside for a few months. Starting impetuously like a sanguine
oarsman setting forth in the early morning I came very soon to a fork in
the stream and found it necessary to pause and reflect seriously upon
the direction I would take. Either presented to me equal fascinations,
at least on the surface, and for that very reason my hesitation extended
over many days. I floated in the calm water of pleasant speculation,
between the diverging currents or conflicting impulses, with an
agreeable but perfectly irrational conviction that neither of those
currents would take me to destruction. My sympathies being equally
divided and the two forces being equal it is perfectly obvious that
nothing but mere chance influenced my decision in the end. It is a
mighty force that of mere chance; absolutely irresistible yet
manifesting itself often in delicate forms such for instance as the
charm, true or illusory, of a human being. It is very difficult to put
one's finger on the imponderable, but I may venture to say that it is
Flora de Barral who is really responsible for this novel which relates,
in fact, the story of her life.

At the crucial moment of my indecision Flora de Barral passed before me,
but so swiftly that I failed at first to get hold of her. Though loth to
give her up I didn't see the way of pursuit clearly and was on the point
of becoming discouraged when my natural liking for Captain Anthony came
to my assistance. I said to myself that if that man was so determined to
embrace a "wisp of mist" the best thing for me was to join him in that
eminently practical and praiseworthy adventure. I simply followed
Captain Anthony. Each of us was bent on capturing his own dream. The
reader will be able to judge of our success.

Captain Anthony's determination led him a long and roundabout course and
that is why this book is a long book. That the course was of my own
choosing I will not deny. A critic had remarked that if I had selected
another method of composition and taken a little more trouble the tale
could have been told in about two hundred pages. I confess I do not
perceive exactly the bearings of such criticism or even the use of such
a remark. No doubt that by selecting a certain method and taking great
pains the whole story might have been written out on a cigarette paper.
For that matter, the whole history of mankind could be written thus if
only approached with sufficient detachment. The history of men on this
earth since the beginning of ages may be resumed in one phrase of
infinite poignancy: They were born, they suffered, they died.... Yet it
is a great tale! But in the infinitely minute stories about men and
women it is my lot on earth to narrate I am not capable of such
detachment.

What makes this book memorable to me apart from the natural sentiment
one has for one's creation is the response it provoked. The general
public responded largely, more largely perhaps than to any other book of
mine, in the only way the general public can respond, that is by buying
a certain number of copies. This gave me a considerable amount of
pleasure, because what I always feared most was drifting unconsciously
into the position of a writer for a limited coterie; a position which
would have been odious to me as throwing a doubt on the soundness of my
belief in the solidarity of all mankind in simple ideas and in sincere
emotions. Regarded as a manifestation of criticism (for it would be
outrageous to deny to the general public the possession of a critical
mind) the reception was very satisfactory. I saw that I had managed to
please a certain number of minds busy attending to their own very real
affairs. It is agreeable to think one is able to please. From the minds
whose business it is precisely to criticize such attempts to please,
this book received an amount of discussion and of a rather searching
analysis which not only satisfied that personal vanity I share with the
rest of mankind but reached my deeper feelings and aroused my gratified
interest. The undoubted sympathy informing the varied appreciations of
that book was, I love to think, a recognition of my good faith in the
pursuit of my art--the art of the novelist which a distinguished French
writer at the end of a successful career complained of as being: _Trop
difficile!_ It is indeed too arduous in the sense that the effort must
be invariably so much greater than the possible achievement. In that
sort of foredoomed task which is in its nature very lonely also,
sympathy is a precious thing. It can make the most severe criticism
welcome. To be told that better things have been expected of one may be
soothing in view of how much better things one had expected from oneself
in this art which, in these days, is no longer justified by the
assumption, somewhere and somehow, of a didactic purpose.

I do not mean to hint that anybody had ever done me the injury (I don't
mean insult, I mean injury) of charging a single one of my pages with
didactic purpose. But every subject in the region of intellect and
emotion must have a morality of its own if it is treated at all
sincerely; and even the most artful of writers will give himself (and
his morality) away in about every third sentence. The varied shades of
moral significance which have been discovered in my writings are very
numerous. None of them, however, have provoked a hostile manifestation.
It may have happened to me to sin against taste now and then, but
apparently I have never sinned against the basic feelings and elementary
convictions which make life possible to the mass of mankind and, by
establishing a standard of judgment, set their idealism free to look for
plainer ways, for higher feelings, for deeper purposes.

I cannot say that any particular moral complexion has been put on this
novel but I do not think that anybody had detected in it an evil
intention. And it is only for their intentions that men can be held
responsible. The ultimate effects of whatever they do are far beyond
their control. In doing this book my intention was to interest people in
my vision of things which is indissolubly allied to the style in which
it is expressed. In other words I wanted to write a certain amount of
pages in prose, which, strictly speaking, is my proper business. I have
attended to it conscientiously with the hope of being entertaining or at
least not insufferably boring to my readers. I can not sufficiently
insist upon the truth that when I sit down to write my intentions are
always blameless however deplorable the ultimate effect of the act may
turn out to be.

J. C.

1920.

WITHIN THE TIDES

The tales collected in this book have elicited on their appearance two
utterances in the shape of comment and one distinctly critical charge. A
reviewer observed that I liked to write of men who go to sea or live on
lonely islands untrammeled by the pressure of worldly circumstances
because such characters allowed freer play to my imagination which in
their case was only bounded by natural laws and the universal human
conventions. There is a certain truth in this remark no doubt. It is
only the suggestion of deliberate choice that misses its mark. I have
not sought for special imaginative freedom or a larger play of fancy in
my choice of characters and subjects. The nature of the knowledge,
suggestions or hints used in my imaginative work has depended directly
on the conditions of my active life. It depended more on contacts, and
very slight contacts at that, than on actual experience; because my life
as a matter of fact was far from being adventurous in itself. Even now
when I look back on it with a certain regret (who would not regret his
youth?) and positive affection, its colouring wears the sober hue of
hard work and exacting calls of duty, things which in themselves are not
much charged with a feeling of romance. If these things appeal strongly
to me even in retrospect it is, I suppose, because the romantic feeling
of reality was in me an inborn faculty, that in itself may be a curse
but when disciplined by a sense of personal responsibility and a
recognition of the hard facts of existence shared with the rest of
mankind becomes but a point of view from which the very shadows of life
appear endowed with an internal glow. And such romanticism is not a sin.
It is none the worse for the knowledge of truth. It only tries to make
the best of it, hard as it may be; and in this hardness discovers a
certain aspect of beauty.

I am speaking here of romanticism in relation to life, not of
romanticism in relation to imaginative literature, which, in its early
days, was associated simply with mediaeval subjects, or, at any rate,
with subjects sought for in a remote past. My subjects are not mediaeval
and I have a natural right to them because my past is very much my own.
If their course lie out of the beaten path of organized social life, it
is, perhaps, because I myself did in a sort break away from it early in
obedience to an impulse which must have been very genuine since it has
sustained me through all the dangers of disillusion. But that origin of
my literary work was very far from giving a larger scope to my
imagination. On the contrary, the mere fact of dealing with matters
outside the general run of everyday experience laid me under the
obligation of a more scrupulous fidelity to the truth of my own
sensations. The problem was to make unfamiliar things credible. To do
that I had to create for them, to reproduce for them, to envelop them in
their proper atmosphere of actuality. This was the hardest task of all
and the most important, in view of that conscientious rendering of truth
in thought and fact which has been always my aim.

The other utterance of the two I have alluded to above consisted in the
observation that in this volume of mine the whole was greater than its
parts. I pass it on to my readers merely remarking that if this is
really so then I must take it as a tribute to my personality since those
stories which by implication seem to hold so well together as to be
surveyed en bloc and judged as the product of a single mood, were
written at different times, under various influences and with the
deliberate intention of trying several ways of telling a tale. The hints
and suggestions for all of them had been received at various times and
in distant parts of the globe. The book received a good deal of varied
criticism, mainly quite justifiable, but in a couple of instances quite
surprising in its objections. Amongst them was the critical charge of
false realism brought against the opening story: The Planter of Malata.
I would have regarded it as serious enough if I had not discovered on
reading further that the distinguished critic was accusing me simply of
having sought to evade a happy ending out of a sort of moral cowardice,
lest I should be condemned as a superficially sentimental person. Where
(and of what sort) there are to be found in The Planter of Malata any
germs of happiness that could have fructified at the end I am at a loss
to see. Such criticism seems to miss the whole purpose and significance
of a piece of writing the primary intention of which was mainly
aesthetic; an essay in description and narrative around a given
psychological situation. Of more seriousness was the spoken criticism of
an old and valued friend who thought that in the scene near the rock,
which from the point of view of psychology is crucial, neither Felicia
Moorsom nor Geoffrey Renouard find the right things to say to each
other. I didn't argue the point at the time, for, to be candid, I didn't
feel quite satisfied with the scene myself. On re-reading it lately for
the purpose of this edition I have come to the conclusion that there is
that much truth in my friend's criticism that I have made those people a
little too explicit in their emotion and thus have destroyed to a
certain extent the characteristic illusory glamour of their
personalities. I regret this defect very much for I regard The Planter
of Malata as a nearly successful attempt at doing a very difficult thing
which I would have liked to have made as perfect as it lay in my power.
Yet considering the pitch and the tonality of the whole tale it is very
difficult to imagine what else those two people could have found to say
at that time and on that particular spot of the earth's surface. In the
mood in which they both were, and given the exceptional state of their
feelings, anything might have been said.

The eminent critic who charged me with false realism, the outcome of
timidity, was quite wrong. I should like to ask him what he imagines
the, so to speak, lifelong embrace of Felicia Moorsom and Geoffrey
Renouard could have been like? Could it have been at all? Would it have
been credible? No! I did not shirk anything, either from timidity or
laziness. Perhaps a little mistrust of my own powers would not have been
altogether out of place in this connection. But it failed me; and I
resemble Geoffrey Renouard in so far that when once engaged in an
adventure I cannot bear the idea of turning back. The moment had
arrived for these people to disclose themselves. They had to do it. To
render a crucial point of feelings in terms of human speech is really an
impossible task. Written words can only form a sort of translation. And
if that translation happens, from want of skill or from over-anxiety, to
be too literal, the people caught in the toils of passion, instead of
disclosing themselves, which would be art, are made to give themselves
away, which is neither art nor life. Nor yet truth! At any rate not the
whole truth; for it is truth robbed of all its necessary and sympathetic
reservations and qualifications which give it its fair form, its just
proportions, its semblance of human fellowship.

Indeed the task of the translator of passions into speech may be
pronounced "too difficult." However, with my customary impenitence I am
glad I have attempted the story with all its implications and
difficulties, including the scene by the side of the gray rock crowning
the height of Malata. But I am not so inordinately pleased with the
result as not to be able to forgive a patient reader who may find it
somewhat disappointing.

I have left myself no space to talk about the other three stories
because I do not think that they call for detailed comment. Each of them
has its special mood and I have tried purposely to give each its special
tone and a different construction of phrase. A reviewer asked in
reference to the Inn of the Two Witches whether I ever came across a
tale called A Very Strange Bed published in _Household Words_ in 1852 or
54. I never saw a number of _Household Words_ of that decade. A bed of
the sort was discovered in an inn on the road between Rome and Naples at
the end of the 18th century. Where I picked up the information I cannot
say now but I am certain it was not in a tale. This bed is the only
"fact" of the Witches' Inn. The other two stories have considerably more
"fact" in them, derived from my own personal knowledge.

J. C.

1920

NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION

The last word of this novel was written on the 29th of May, 1914. And
that last word was the single word of the title.

Those were the times of peace. Now that the moment of publication
approaches I have been considering the discretion of altering the title
page. The word Victory, the shining and tragic goal of noble effort,
appeared too great, too august, to stand at the head of a mere novel.
There was also the possibility of falling under the suspicion of
commercial astuteness deceiving the public into the belief that the book
had something to do with war.

Of that, however, I was not afraid very much. What influenced my
decision most were the obscure promptings of that pagan residuum of awe
and wonder which lurks still at the bottom of our old humanity. Victory
was the last word I had written in peace time. It was the last literary
thought which had occurred to me before the doors of the Temple of Janus
flying open with a crash shook the minds, the hearts, the consciences of
men all over the world. Such coincidence could not be treated lightly.
And I made up my mind to let the word stand, in the same hopeful spirit
in which some simple citizen of Old Rome would have "accepted the Omen."

The second point on which I wish to offer a remark is the existence (in
the novel) of a person named Schomberg.

That I believe him to be true goes without saying. I am not likely to
offer pinchbeck wares to my public consciously. Schomberg is an old
member of my company. A very subordinate personage in Lord Jim as far
back as the year 1899, he became notably active in a certain short story
of mine published in 1902. Here he appears in a still larger part, true
to life (I hope), but also true to himself. Only, in this instance, his
deeper passions come into play, and thus his grotesque psychology is
completed at last.

I don't pretend to say that this is the entire Teutonic psychology; but
it is indubitably the psychology of a Teuton. My object in mentioning
him here is to bring out the fact that, far from being the incarnation
of recent animosities, he is the creature of my old, deep-seated and, as
it were, impartial conviction.

J. C.

VICTORY

On approaching the task of writing this Note for "Victory" the first
thing I am conscious of is the actual nearness of the book, its
nearness to me personally, to the vanished mood in which it was written
and to the mixed feelings aroused by the critical notices the book
obtained when first published almost exactly a year after the beginning
of the great war. The writing of it was finished in 1914 long before the
murder of an Austrian Archduke sounded the first note of warning for a
world already full of doubts and fears.

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