Notes on My Books
J >>
Joseph Conrad >> Notes on My Books
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8
However, History has nothing to do with this tale. Neither is the moral
justification or condemnation of conduct aimed at here. If anything it
is perhaps a little sympathy that the writer expects for his buried
youth, as he lives it over again at the end of his insignificant course
on this earth. Strange person--yet perhaps not so very different from
ourselves.
A few words as to certain facts may be added.
It may seem that he was plunged very abruptly into this long adventure.
But from certain passages (suppressed here because mixed up with
irrelevant matter) it appears clearly that at the time of the meeting in
the cafe, Mills had already gathered, in various quarters, a definite
view of the eager youth who had been introduced to him in that
ultra-legitimist salon. What Mills had learned represented him as a
young gentleman who had arrived furnished with proper credentials and
who apparently was doing his best to waste his life in an eccentric
fashion, with a bohemian set (one poet, at least, emerged out of it
later) on one side, and on the other making friends with the people of
the Old Town, pilots, coasters, sailors, workers of all sorts. He
pretended rather absurdly to be a seaman himself and was already
credited with an ill-defined and vaguely illegal enterprise in the Gulf
of Mexico. At once it occurred to Mills that this eccentric youngster
was the very person for what the legitimist sympathizers had very much
at heart just then; to organize a supply by sea of arms and ammunition
to the Carlist detachments in the South. It was precisely to confer on
that matter with Dona Rita that Captain Blunt had been despatched from
Headquarters.
Mills got in touch with Blunt at once and put the suggestion before him.
The Captain thought this the very thing. As a matter of fact, on that
evening of Carnival, those two, Mills and Blunt, had been actually
looking everywhere for our man. They had decided that he should be drawn
into the affair if it could be done. Blunt naturally wanted to see him
first. He must have estimated him a promising person, but, from another
point of view, not dangerous. Thus lightly was the notorious (and at the
same time mysterious) Monsieur George brought into the world; out of the
contact of two minds which did not give a single thought to his flesh
and blood.
This purpose explains the intimate tone given to their first
conversation and the sudden introduction of Dona Rita's history. Mills,
of course, wanted to hear all about it. As to Captain Blunt I suspect
that, at the time, he was thinking of nothing else. In addition it was
Dona Rita who would have to do the persuading; for, after all, such an
enterprise with its ugly and desperate risks was not a trifle to put
before a man--however young.
It cannot be denied that Mills seems to have acted somewhat
unscrupulously. He himself appears to have had some doubt about it, at a
given moment, as they were driving to the Prado. But perhaps Mills, with
his penetration, understood very well the nature he was dealing with. He
might even have envied it. But it's not my business to excuse Mills. As
to him whom we may regard as Mills' victim it is obvious that he has
never harboured a single reproachful thought. For him Mills is not to be
criticized. A remarkable instance of the great power of mere
individuality over the young.
* * * * *
Having named all the short prefaces written for my books, Author's
Notes, this one too must have the same heading for the sake of
uniformity if at the risk of some confusion. "The Arrow of Gold," as its
sub-title states, is a story between two Notes. But these Notes are
embodied in its very frame, belong to its texture, and their mission is
to prepare and close the story. They are material to the comprehension
of the experience related in the narrative and are meant to determine
the time and place together with certain historical circumstances
conditioning the existence of the people concerned in the transactions
of the twelve months covered by the narrative. It was the shortest way
of getting over the preliminaries of a piece of work which could not
have been of the nature of a chronicle.
"The Arrow of Gold" is my first after-the-war publication. The writing
of it was begun in the autumn of 1917 and finished in the summer of
1918. Its memory is associated with that of the darkest hour of the war,
which, in accordance with the well known proverb, preceded the dawn--the
dawn of peace.
As I look at them now, these pages, written in the days of stress and
dread, wear a look of strange serenity. They were written calmly, yet
not in cold blood, and are perhaps the only kind of pages I could have
written at that time full of menace, but also full of faith.
The subject of this book I have been carrying about with me for many
years, not so much a possession of my memory as an inherent part of
myself. It was ever present to my mind and ready to my hand, but I was
loth to touch it from a feeling of what I imagined to be mere shyness
but which in reality was a very comprehensible mistrust of myself.
In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom,
especially if it has got to be carried into the market-place. This being
the product of my private garden my reluctance can be easily understood;
though some critics have expressed their regret that I had not written
this book fifteen years earlier I do not share that opinion. If I took
it up so late in life it is because the right moment had not arrived
till then. I mean the positive feeling of it, which is a thing that
cannot be discussed. Neither will I discuss here the regrets of those
critics, which seem to me the most irrelevant thing that could have been
said in connection with literary criticism.
I never tried to conceal the origins of the subject matter of this book
which I have hesitated so long to write; but some reviewers indulged
themselves with a sense of triumph in discovering in it my Dominic of
"The Mirror of the Sea" under his own name (a truly wonderful
discovery) and in recognizing the balancelle _Tremolino_ in the unnamed
little craft in which Mr. George plied his fantastic trade and sought to
allay the pain of his incurable wound. I am not in the least
disconcerted by this display of perspicacity. It is the same man and the
same balancelle. But for the purposes of a book like "The Mirror of the
Sea" all I could make use of was the personal history of the little
_Tremolino_. The present work is not in any sense an attempt to develop
a subject lightly touched upon in former years and in connection with
quite another kind of love. What the story of the _Tremolino_ in its
anecdotic character has in common with the story of "The Arrow of Gold"
is the quality of initiation (through an ordeal which required some
resolution to face) into the life of passion. In the few pages at the
end of "The Mirror of the Sea" and in the whole volume of "The Arrow of
Gold," _that_ and no other is the subject offered to the public. The
pages and the book form together a complete record; and the only
assurance I can give my readers is, that as it stands here with all its
imperfections it is given to them complete.
I venture this explicit statement because, amidst much sympathetic
appreciation, I have detected here and there a note, as it were, of
suspicion. Suspicion of facts concealed, of explanations held back, of
inadequate motives. But what is lacking in the facts is simply what I
did not know, and what is not explained is what I did not understand
myself, and what seems inadequate is the fault of my imperfect insight.
And all that I could not help. In the case of this book I was unable to
supplement these deficiences by the exercise of my inventive faculty. It
was never very strong; and on this occasion its use would have seemed
exceptionally dishonest. It is from that ethical motive and not from
timidity that I elected to keep strictly within the limits of unadorned
sincerity and to try to enlist the sympathies of my readers without
assuming lofty omniscience or descending to the subterfuge of
exaggerated emotions.
J. C.
1920.
THE RESCUE
Of the three long novels of mine which suffered an interruption, "The
Rescue" was the one that had to wait the longest for the good pleasure
of the Fates. I am betraying no secret when I state here that it had to
wait precisely for twenty years. I laid it aside at the end of the
summer of 1898 and it was about the end of the summer of 1918 that I
took it up again with the firm determination to see the end of it and
helped by the sudden feeling that I might be equal to the task.
This does not mean that I turned to it with elation. I was well aware
and perhaps even too much aware of the dangers of such an adventure. The
amazingly sympathetic kindness which men of various temperaments,
diverse views and different literary tastes have been for years
displaying towards my work has done much for me, has done all--except
giving me that overweening self-confidence which may assist an
adventurer sometimes but in the long run ends by leading him to the
gallows.
As the characteristic I want most to impress upon these short Author's
Notes prepared for my first Collected Edition is that of absolute
frankness, I hasten to declare that I founded my hopes not on my
supposed merits but on the continued goodwill of my readers. I may say
at once that my hopes have been justified out of all proportion to my
deserts. I met with the most considerate, most delicately expressed
criticism free from all antagonism and in its conclusions showing an
insight which in itself could not fail to move me deeply, but was
associated also with enough commendation to make me feel rich beyond the
dreams of avarice--I mean an artist's avarice which seeks its treasure
in the hearts of men and women.
No! Whatever the preliminary anxieties might have been this adventure
was not to end in sorrow. Once more Fortune favoured audacity; and yet I
have never forgotten the jocular translation of _Audaces fortuna juvat_
offered to me by my tutor when I was a small boy: "The Audacious get
bitten." However he took care to mention that there were various kinds
of audacity. Oh, there are, there are!... There is, for instance, the
kind of audacity almost indistinguishable from impudence.... I must
believe that in this case I have not been impudent for I am not
conscious of having been bitten.
The truth is that when "The Rescue" was laid aside it was not laid aside
in despair. Several reasons contributed to this abandonment and, no
doubt, the first of them was the growing sense of general difficulty in
the handling of the subject. The contents and the course of the story I
had clearly in my mind. But as to the way of presenting the facts, and
perhaps in a certain measure as to the nature of the facts themselves, I
had many doubts. I mean the telling, representative facts, helpful to
carry on the idea, and, at the same time, of such a nature as not to
demand an elaborate creation of the atmosphere to the detriment of the
action. I did not see how I could avoid becoming wearisome in the
presentation of detail and in the pursuit of clearness. I saw the action
plainly enough. What I had lost for the moment was the sense of the
proper formula of expression, of the only formula that would suit. This,
of course, weakened my confidence in the intrinsic worth and in the
possible interest of the story--that is in my invention. But I suspect
that all the trouble was, in reality, the doubt of my prose, the doubt
of its adequacy, of its power to master both the colours and the shades.
It is difficult to describe, exactly as I remember it, the complex
state of my feelings; but those of my readers who take an interest in
artistic perplexities will understand me best when I point out that I
dropped "The Rescue" not to give myself up to idleness, regrets, or
dreaming, but to begin "The Nigger of the Narcissus" and to go on with
it without hesitation and without a pause. A comparison of any page of
"The Rescue" with any page of "The Nigger" will furnish an ocular
demonstration of the nature and the inward meaning of this first crisis
of my writing life. For it was a crisis undoubtedly. The laying aside of
a work so far advanced was a very awful decision to take. It was wrung
from me by a sudden conviction that _there_ only was the road of
salvation, the clear way out for an uneasy conscience. The finishing of
"The Nigger" brought to my troubled mind the comforting sense of an
accomplished task, and the first consciousness of a certain sort of
mastery which could accomplish something with the aid of propitious
stars. Why I did not return to "The Rescue" at once then, was not for
the reason that I had grown afraid of it. Being able now to assume a
firm attitude I said to myself deliberately: "That thing can wait." At
the same time I was just as certain in my mind that "Youth," a story
which I had then, so to speak, on the tip of my pen, could _not_ wait.
Neither could Heart of Darkness be put off; for the practical reason
that Mr. Wm. Blackwood having requested me to write something for the
No. M. of his magazine I had to stir up at once the subject of that tale
which had been long lying quiescent in my mind, because, obviously, the
venerable Maga at her patriarchal age of 1000 numbers could not be kept
waiting. Then "Lord Jim," with about seventeen pages already written at
odd times, put in his claim which was irresistible. Thus every stroke of
the pen was taking me further away from the abandoned "Rescue," not
without some compunction on my part but with a gradually diminishing
resistance; till at last I let myself go as if recognizing a superior
influence against which it was useless to contend.
The years passed and the pages grew in number, and the long reveries of
which they were the outcome stretched wide between me and the deserted
"Rescue" like the smooth hazy spaces of a dreamy sea. Yet I never
actually lost sight of that dark speck in the misty distance. It had
grown very small but it asserted itself with the appeal of old
associations. It seemed to me that it would be a base thing for me to
slip out of the world leaving it out there all alone, waiting for its
fate--that would never come!
Sentiment, pure sentiment as you see, prompted me in the last instance
to face the pains and hazards of that return. As I moved slowly towards
the abandoned body of the tale it loomed up big amongst the glittering
shallows of the coast, lonely but not forbidding. There was nothing
about it of a grim derelict. It had an air of expectant life. One after
another I made out the familiar faces watching my approach with faint
smiles of amused recognition. They had known well enough that I was
bound to come back to them. But their eyes met mine seriously as was
only to be expected since I myself felt very serious as I stood amongst
them again after years of absence. At once, without wasting words, we
went to work together on our renewed life; and every moment I felt more
strongly that They Who had Waited bore no grudge to the man who however
widely he may have wandered at times had played truant only once in his
life.
J. C.
1920.
NOTES ON LIFE AND LETTERS
I don't know whether I ought to offer an apology for this collection
which has more to do with life than with letters. Its appeal is made to
orderly minds. This, to be frank about it, is a process of tidying up,
which, from the nature of things, can not be regarded as premature. The
fact is that I wanted to do it myself because of a feeling that had
nothing to do with the considerations of worthiness or unworthiness of
the small (but unbroken) pieces collected within the covers of this
volume. Of course it may be said that I might have taken up a broom and
used it without saying anything about it. That certainly is one way of
tidying up.
But it would have been too much to have expected me to treat all this
matter as removable rubbish. All those things had a place in my life.
Whether any of them deserve to have been picked up and ranged on the
shelf--this shelf--I cannot say, and, frankly, I have not allowed my
mind to dwell on the question. I was afraid of thinking myself into a
mood that would hurt my feelings; for those pieces of writing, whatever
may be the comment on their display, appertain to the character of the
man.
And so here they are, dusted, which was but a decent thing to do, but in
no way polished, extending from the year '98 to the year '20, a thin
array (for such a stretch of time) of really innocent attitudes: Conrad
literary, Conrad political, Conrad reminiscent, Conrad controversial.
Well, yes! A one-man show--or is it merely the show of one man?
The only thing that will not be found amongst those Figures and Things
that have passed away will be Conrad "_en pantoufles_." It is a
constitutional inability. _Schlafrock und pantoffeln!_ Not that! Never!
I don't know whether I dare boast like a certain South American general
who used to say that no emergency of war or peace had ever found him
"with his boots off"; but I may say that whenever the various
periodicals mentioned in this book called on me to come out and blow the
trumpet of personal opinions or strike the pensive lute that speaks of
the past, I always tried to pull on my boots first. I didn't want to do
it, God knows! Their Editors, to whom I beg to offer my thanks here,
made me perform mainly by kindness but partly by bribery. Well, yes!
Bribery. What can you expect? I never pretended to be better than the
people in the next street and even in the same street.
This volume (including these embarrassed introductory remarks) is as
near as I shall ever come to deshabille in public; and perhaps it will
do something to help towards a better vision of the man, if it gives no
more than a partial view of a piece of his back, a little dusty (after
the process of tidying up), a little bowed, and receding from the world
not because of weariness or misanthropy but for other reasons that
cannot be helped: because the leaves fall, the water flows, the clock
ticks with that horrid pitiless solemnity which you must have observed
in the ticking of the hall clock at home. For reasons like that. Yes! It
recedes. And this was the chance to afford one more view of it--even to
my own eyes.
The section within this volume called Letters explains itself though I
do not pretend to say that it justifies its own existence. It claims
nothing in its defence except the right of speech which I believe
belongs to everybody outside a Trappist monastery. The part I have
ventured, for shortness' sake, to call Life, may perhaps justify itself
by the emotional sincerity of the feelings to which the various papers
included under that head owe their origin. And as they relate to events
of which everyone has a date, they are in the nature of sign-posts
pointing out the direction my thoughts were compelled to take at the
various crossroads. If anybody detects any sort of consistency in the
choice, this will be only proof positive that wisdom had nothing to do
with it. Whether right or wrong, instinct alone is invariable; a fact
which only adds a deeper shade to its inherent mystery. The appearance
of intellectuality these pieces may present at first sight is merely the
result of the arrangement of words. The logic that may be found there is
only the logic of the language. But I need not labour the point. There
will be plenty of people sagacious enough to perceive the absence of all
wisdom from these pages. But I believe sufficiently in human sympathies
to imagine that very few will question their sincerity. Whatever
delusions I may have suffered from I have had no delusions as to the
nature of the facts commented on here. I may have misjudged their
import: but that is the sort of error for which one may expect a certain
amount of toleration.
The only paper of this collection which has never been published before
is the Note on the Polish problem. It was written at the request of a
friend to be shown privately, and its "Protectorate" idea, sprung from a
strong sense of the critical nature of the situation, was shaped by the
actual circumstances of the time. The time was about a month before the
entrance of Roumania into the war, and though, honestly, I had seen
already the shadow of coming events I could not permit my misgivings to
enter into and destroy the structure of my plan. I still believe that
there was some sense in it. It may certainly be charged with the
appearance of lack of faith and it lays itself open to the throwing of
many stones; but my object was practical and I had to consider warily
the preconceived notions of the people to whom it was implicitly
addressed and also their unjustifiable hopes. They were unjustifiable,
but who was to tell them that? I mean who was wise enough and
convincing enough to show them the inanity of their mental attitude? The
whole atmosphere was poisoned with visions that were not so much false
as simply impossible. They were also the result of vague and unconfessed
fears, and that made their strength. For myself, with a very definite
dread in my heart, I was careful not to allude to their character
because I did not want the Note to be thrown away unread. And then I had
to remember that the impossible has sometimes the trick of coming to
pass to the confusion of minds and often to the crushing of hearts.
Of the other papers I have nothing special to say. They are what they
are, and I am by now too hardened a sinner to feel ashamed of
insignificant indiscretions. And as to their appearance in this form I
claim that indulgence to which all sinners against themselves are
entitled.
J. C.
1920.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8