some reminiscences-第2章

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in　the　eyes　of　men）　have　their　source　in　weaknesses　which　must　be



recognised　with　smiling　compassion　as　the　common　inheritance　of



us　all。　　Joy　and　sorrow　in　this　world　pass　into　each　other；



mingling　their　forms　and　their　murmurs　in　the　twilight　of　life　as



mysterious　as　an　over…shadowed　ocean；　while　the　dazzling



brightness　of　supreme　hopes　lies　far　off；　fascinating　and　still；



on　the　distant　edge　of　the　horizon。







Yes！　　I　too　would　like　to　hold　the　magic　wand　giving　that　command



over　laughter　and　tears　which　is　declared　to　be　the　highest



achievement　of　imaginative　literature。　　Only；　to　be　a　great



magician　one　must　surrender　oneself　to　occult　and　irresponsible



powers；　either　outside　or　within　one's　own　breast。　　We　have　all



heard　of　simple　men　selling　their　souls　for　love　or　power　to　some



grotesque　devil。　　The　most　ordinary　intelligence　can　perceive



without　much　reflection　that　anything　of　the　sort　is　bound　to　be



a　fool's　bargain。　　I　don't　lay　claim　to　particular　wisdom　because



of　my　dislike　and　distrust　of　such　transactions。　　It　may　be　my



sea…training　acting　upon　a　natural　disposition　to　keep　good　hold



on　the　one　thing　really　mine；　but　the　fact　is　that　I　have　a



positive　horror　of　losing　even　for　one　moving　moment　that　full



possession　of　myself　which　is　the　first　condition　of　good



service。　　And　I　have　carried　my　notion　of　good　service　from　my



earlier　into　my　later　existence。　　I；　who　have　never　sought　in　the



written　word　anything　else　but　a　form　of　the　Beautiful；　I　have



carried　over　that　article　of　creed　from　the　decks　of　ships　to　the



more　circumscribed　space　of　my　desk；　and　by　that　act；　I　suppose；



I　have　become　permanently　imperfect　in　the　eyes　of　the　ineffable



company　of　pure　esthetes。







As　in　political　so　in　literary　action　a　man　wins　friends　for



himself　mostly　by　the　passion　of　his　prejudices　and　by　the



consistent　narrowness　of　his　outlook。　　But　I　have　never　been　able



to　love　what　was　not　lovable　or　hate　what　was　not　hateful；　out　of



deference　for　some　general　principle。　　Whether　there　be　any



courage　in　making　this　admission　I　know　not。　　After　the　middle



turn　of　life's　way　we　consider　dangers　and　joys　with　a　tranquil



mind。　　So　I　proceed　in　peace　to　declare　that　I　have　always



suspected　in　the　effort　to　bring　into　play　the　extremities　of



emotions　the　debasing　touch　of　insincerity。　　In　order　to　move



others　deeply　we　must　deliberately　allow　ourselves　to　be　carried



away　beyond　the　bounds　of　our　normal　sensibilityinnocently



enough　perhaps　and　of　necessity；　like　an　actor　who　raises　his



voice　on　the　stage　above　the　pitch　of　natural　conversationbut



still　we　have　to　do　that。　　And　surely　this　is　no　great　sin。　　But



the　danger　lies　in　the　writer　becoming　the　victim　of　his　own



exaggeration；　losing　the　exact　notion　of　sincerity；　and　in　the



end　coming　to　despise　truth　itself　as　something　too　cold；　too



blunt　for　his　purposeas；　in　fact；　not　good　enough　for　his



insistent　emotion。　　From　laughter　and　tears　the　descent　is　easy



to　snivelling　and　giggles。







These　may　seem　selfish　considerations；　but　you　can't；　in　sound



morals；　condemn　a　man　for　taking　care　of　his　own　integrity。　　It



is　his　clear　duty。　　And　least　of　all　you　can　condemn　an　artist



pursuing；　however　humbly　and　imperfectly；　a　creative　aim。　　In



that　interior　world　where　his　thought　and　his　emotions　go　seeking



for　the　experience　of　imagined　adventures；　there　are　no



policemen；　no　law；　no　pressure　of　circumstance　or　dread　of



opinion　to　keep　him　within　bounds。　　Who　then　is　going　to　say　Nay



to　his　temptations　if　not　his　conscience？







And　besidesthis；　remember；　is　the　place　and　the　moment　of



perfectly　open　talkI　think　that　all　ambitions　are　lawful　except



those　which　climb　upwards　on　the　miseries　or　credulities　of



mankind。　　All　intellectual　and　artistic　ambitions　are



permissible；　up　to　and　even　beyond　the　limit　of　prudent　sanity。



They　can　hurt　no　one。　　If　they　are　mad；　then　so　much　the　worse



for　the　artist。　　Indeed；　as　virtue　is　said　to　be；　such　ambitions



are　their　own　reward。　　Is　it　such　a　very　mad　presumption　to



believe　in　the　sovereign　power　of　one's　art；　to　try　for　other



means；　for　other　ways　of　affirming　this　belief　in　the　deeper



appeal　of　one's　work？　　To　try　to　go　deeper　is　not　to　be



insensible。　　An　historian　of　hearts　is　not　an　historian　of



emotions；　yet　he　penetrates　further；　restrained　as　he　may　be；



since　his　aim　is　to　reach　the　very　fount　of　laughter　and　tears。



The　sight　of　human　affairs　deserves　admiration　and　pity。　　They



are　worthy　of　respect　too。　　And　he　is　not　insensible　who　pays



them　the　undemonstrative　tribute　of　a　sigh　which　is　not　a　sob；



and　of　a　smile　which　is　not　a　grin。　　Resignation；　not　mystic；　not



detached；　but　resignation　open…eyed；　conscious　and　informed　by



love；　is　the　only　one　of　our　feelings　for　which　it　is　impossible



to　become　a　sham。







Not　that　I　think　resignation　the　last　word　of　wisdom。　　I　am　too



much　the　creature　of　my　time　for　that。　　But　I　think　that　the



proper　wisdom　is　to　will　what　the　gods　will　without　perhaps　being



certain　what　their　will　isor　even　if　they　have　a　will　of　their



own。　　And　in　this　matter　of　life　and　art　it　is　not　the　Why　that



matters　so　much　to　our　happiness　as　the　How。　　As　the　Frenchman



said；　〃Il　y　a　toujours　la　maniere。〃　　Very　true。　　Yes。　　There　is



the　manner。　　The　manner　in　laughter；　in　tears；　in　irony；　in



indignations　and　enthusiasms；　in　judgmentsand　even　in　love。



The　manner　in　which；　as　in　the　features　and　character　of　a　human



face；　the　inner　truth　is　foreshadowed　for　those　who　know　how　to



look　at　their　kind。







Those　who　read　me　know　my　conviction　that　the　world；　the　temporal



world；　rests　on　a　few　very　simple　ideas；　so　simple　that　they　must



be　as　old　as　the　hills。　　It　rests　notably；　amongst　others；　on　the



idea　of　Fidelity。　　At　a　time　when　nothing　which　is　not



revolutionary　in　some　way　or　other　can　expect　to　attract　much



attention　I　have　not　been　revolutionary　in　my　writings。　　The



revolutionary　spirit　is　mighty　convenient　in　this；　that　it　frees



one　from　all　scruples　as　regards　ideas。　　Its　hard；　absolute



optimism　is　repulsive　to　my　mind　by　the　menace　of　fanaticism　and



intolerance　it　contains。　　No　doubt　one　should　smile　at　these



things；　but；　imperfect　Esthete；　I　am　no　better　Philosopher。　　All



claim　to　special　righteousness　awakens　in　me　that　scorn　and　anger



from　which　a　philosophical　mind　should　be　free。　。　。







I　fear　that　trying　to　be　conversational　I　have　only　managed　to　be



unduly　discursive。　　I　have　never　been　very　well　acquainted　with



the　art　of　conversationthat　art　which；　I　understand；　is



supposed　to　be　lost　now。　　My　young　days；　the　days　when　one's



habits　and　character　are　formed；　have　been　rather　familiar　with



long　silences。　　Such　voices　as　broke　into　them　were　anything　but



conversational。　　No。　　I　haven't　got　the　habit。　　Yet　this



discursiveness　is　not　so　irrelevant　to　the　handful　of　pages　which



follow。　　They；　too；　have　been　charged　with　discursiveness；　with



disregard　of　chronological　order　（which　is　in　itself　a　crime）；



with　unconventionality　of　form　（which　is　an　impropriety）。　　I　was



told　severely　that　the　public　would　view　with　displeasure　the



informal　character　of　my　recollections。　　〃Alas！〃　I　protested



mildly。　　〃Could　I　begin　with　the　sacramental　words；　'I　was　born



on　such　a　date　in　such　a　place'？　　The　remoteness　of　the　locality



would　have　robbed　the　statement　of　all　interest。　　I　haven't　lived



through　wonderful　adventures　to　be　related　seriatim。　　I　haven't



known　distinguished　men　on　whom　I　could　pass　fatuous　remarks。　　I



haven't　been　mixed　up　with　great　or　scandalous　affairs。　　This　is



but　a　bit　of　psychological　document；　and　even　so；　I　haven't



written　it　with　a　view　to　put　forward　any　conclusion　of　my　own。〃







But　my　objector　was　not　placated。　　These　were　good　reasons　for



not　writing　at　allnot　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。K。











Chapter　I。







Books　may　be　written　in　all　sorts　of　places。　　Verbal　inspiration



may　enter　the　berth　of　a　mariner　on　board　a　ship　frozen　fast　in　a



river　in　the　middle　of　a　town；　and　since　saints　are　supposed　to



look　benignantly　on　humble　believers；　I　indulge　in　the　pleasant



fancy　that　the　shade　of　old　Flaubertwho　imagined　himself　to　be



（amongst　other　things）　a　descendant　of　Vikingsmight　have



hovered　with　amused　interest　over　the　decks　of　a　2000…ton　steamer



called　the　〃Adowa；〃　on　board　of　which；　gripped　by　the　inclement



winter　alongside　a　quay　in　Rouen；　the　tenth　chapter　of　〃Almayer's



Folly〃　was　begun。　　With　interest；　I　say；　for　was　not　the　kind



Norman　giant　with　enormous　moustaches　and　a　thundering　voice　the



last　of　the　Romantics？　　Was　he　not；　in　his　unworldly；　almost



ascetic；　devotion　to　his　art　a　sort　of　literary；　saint…like



hermit？







〃'It　has　set　at　last；'　said　Nina　to　her　mother；　pointing　to　the



hills　behind　which　the　sun　had　sunk。〃。　。　。These　words　of



Almayer's　romantic　daughter　I　remember　tracing　on　the　grey　paper



of　a　pad　which　rested　on　the　blanket　of　my　bed…place。　　They



referred　to　a　sunset　in　Malayan　Isles　and　shaped　themselves　in　my



mind；　in　a　hallucinated　vision　of　forests　and　rivers　and　seas；



far　removed　from　a　commercial　and　yet　romantic　town　of　the



northern　hemi