a personal record-第19章
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womanand with one of your family; too。 I simply cannot bear to
think of it。〃
He was absolutely wringing his hands。 My uncle looked at him in
silence。
〃Thank you for this warning。 I assure you that even if she were
dying she would be carried out to the carriage。〃
〃Yesindeedand what difference would it maketravel to Kiev
or back to her husband? For she would have to godeath or no
death。 And mind; Mr。 B。; I will be here on the day; not that I
doubt your promise; but because I must。 I have got to。 Duty。
All the same my trade is not fit for a dog since some of you
Poles will persist in rebelling; and all of you have got to
suffer for it。〃
This is the reason why he was there in an open three…horse trap
pulled up between the house and the great gates。 I regret not
being able to give up his name to the scorn of all believers in
the right of conquest; as a reprehensibly sensitive guardian of
Imperial greatness。 On the other hand; I am in a position to
state the name of the Governor…General who signed the order with
the marginal note 〃to be carried out to the letter〃 in his own
handwriting。 The gentleman's name was Bezak。 A high dignitary;
an energetic official; the idol for a time of the Russian
patriotic press。
Each generation has its memories。
IV
It must not be supposed that; in setting forth the memories of
this half…hour between the moment my uncle left my room till we
met again at dinner; I am losing sight of 〃Almayer's Folly。〃
Having confessed that my first novel was begun in idlenessa
holiday taskI think I have also given the impression that it
was a much…delayed book。 It was never dismissed from my mind;
even when the hope of ever finishing it was very faint。 Many
things came in its way: daily duties; new impressions; old
memories。 It was not the outcome of a needthe famous need of
self…expression which artists find in their search for motives。
The necessity which impelled me was a hidden; obscure necessity;
a completely masked and unaccountable phenomenon。 Or perhaps
some idle and frivolous magician (there must be magicians in
London) had cast a spell over me through his parlour window as I
explored the maze of streets east and west in solitary leisurely
walks without chart and compass。 Till I began to write that
novel I had written nothing but letters; and not very many of
these。 I never made a note of a fact; of an impression; or of an
anecdote in my life。 The conception of a planned book was
entirely outside my mental range when I sat down to write; the
ambition of being an author had never turned up among those
gracious imaginary existences one creates fondly for oneself at
times in the stillness and immobility of a day…dream: yet it
stands clear as the sun at noonday that from the moment I had
done blackening over the first manuscript page of 〃Almayer's
Folly〃 (it contained about two hundred words and this proportion
of words to a page has remained with me through the fifteen years
of my writing life); from the moment I had; in the simplicity of
my heart and the amazing ignorance of my mind; written that page
the die was cast。 Never had Rubicon been more blindly forded
without invocation to the gods; without fear of men。
That morning I got up from my breakfast; pushing the chair back;
and rang the bell violently; or perhaps I should say resolutely;
or perhaps I should say eagerlyI do not know。 But manifestly
it must have been a special ring of the bell; a common sound made
impressive; like the ringing of a bell for the raising of the
curtain upon a new scene。 It was an unusual thing for me to do。
Generally; I dawdled over my breakfast and I seldom took the
trouble to ring the bell for the table to be cleared away; but on
that morning; for some reason hidden in the general
mysteriousness of the event; I did not dawdle。 And yet I was not
in a hurry。 I pulled the cord casually; and while the faint
tinkling somewhere down in the basement went on; I charged my
pipe in the usual way and I looked for the match…box with glances
distraught indeed; but exhibiting; I am ready to swear; no signs
of a fine frenzy。 I was composed enough to perceive after some
considerable time the match…box lying there on the mantelpiece
right under my nose。 And all this was beautifully and safely
usual。 Before I had thrown down the match my landlady's daughter
appeared with her calm; pale face and an inquisitive look; in the
doorway。 Of late it was the landlady's daughter who answered my
bell。 I mention this little fact with pride; because it proves
that during the thirty or forty days of my tenancy I had produced
a favourable impression。 For a fortnight past I had been spared
the unattractive sight of the domestic slave。 The girls in that
Bessborough Gardens house were often changed; but whether short
or long; fair or dark; they were always untidy and particularly
bedraggled; as if in a sordid version of the fairy tale the
ash…bin cat had been changed into a maid。 I was infinitely
sensible of the privilege of being waited on by my landlady's
daughter。 She was neat if anemic。
〃Will you please clear away all this at once?〃 I addressed her
in convulsive accents; being at the same time engaged in getting
my pipe to draw。 This; I admit; was an unusual request。
Generally; on getting up from breakfast I would sit down in the
window with a book and let them clear the table when they liked;
but if you think that on that morning I was in the least
impatient; you are mistaken。 I remember that I was perfectly
calm。 As a matter of fact I was not at all certain that I wanted
to write; or that I meant to write; or that I had anything to
write about。 No; I was not impatient。 I lounged between the
mantelpiece and the window; not even consciously waiting for the
table to be cleared。 It was ten to one that before my landlady's
daughter was done I would pick up a book and sit down with it all
the morning in a spirit of enjoyable indolence。 I affirm it with
assurance; and I don't even know now what were the books then
lying about the room。 What ever they were; they were not the
works of great masters; where the secret of clear thought and
exact expression can be found。 Since the age of five I have been
a great reader; as is not perhaps wonderful in a child who was
never aware of learning to read。 At ten years of age I had read
much of Victor Hugo and other romantics。 I had read in Polish
and in French; history; voyages; novels; I knew 〃Gil Blas〃 and
〃Don Quixote〃 in abridged editions; I had read in early boyhood
Polish poets and some French poets; but I cannot say what I read
on the evening before I began to write myself。 I believe it was
a novel; and it is quite possible that it was one of Anthony
Trollope's novels。 It is very likely。 My acquaintance with him
was then very recent。 He is one of the English novelists whose
works I read for the first time in English。 With men of European
reputation; with Dickens and Walter Scott and Thackeray; it was
otherwise。 My first introduction to English imaginative
literature was 〃Nicholas Nickleby。〃 It is extraordinary how well
Mrs。 Nickleby could chatter disconnectedly in Polish and the
sinister Ralph rage in that language。 As to the Crummles family
and the family of the learned Squeers it seemed as natural to
them as their native speech。 It was; I have no doubt; an