a personal record-第24章
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the note of your earthly voice; Almayer); then; I entreat you;
seek speech without delay with our sublime fellow…Shadewith him
who; in his transient existence as a poet; commented upon the
smell of the rose。 He will comfort you。 You came to me stripped
of all prestige by men's queer smiles and the disrespectful
chatter of every vagrant trader in the Islands。 Your name was
the common property of the winds; it; as it were; floated naked
over the waters about the equator。 I wrapped round its
unhonoured form the royal mantle of the tropics; and have essayed
to put into the hollow sound the very anguish of paternityfeats
which you did not demand from mebut remember that all the toil
and all the pain were mine。 In your earthly life you haunted me;
Almayer。 Consider that this was taking a great liberty。 Since
you were always complaining of being lost to the world; you
should remember that if I had not believed enough in your
existence to let you haunt my rooms in Bessborough Gardens; you
would have been much more lost。 You affirm that had I been
capable of looking at you with a more perfect detachment and a
greater simplicity; I might have perceived better the inward
marvellousness which; you insist; attended your career upon that
tiny pin…point of light; hardly visible far; far below us; where
both our graves lie。 No doubt! But reflect; O complaining
Shade! that this was not so much my fault as your crowning
misfortune。 I believed in you in the only way it was possible
for me to believe。 It was not worthy of your merits? So be it。
But you were always an unlucky man; Almayer。 Nothing was ever
quite worthy of you。 What made you so real to me was that you
held this lofty theory with some force of conviction and with an
admirable consistency。〃
It is with some such words translated into the proper shadowy
expressions that I am prepared to placate Almayer in the Elysian
Abode of Shades; since it has come to pass that; having parted
many years ago; we are never to meet again in this world。
V
In the career of the most unliterary of writers; in the sense
that literary ambition had never entered the world of his
imagination; the coming into existence of the first book is quite
an inexplicable event。 In my own case I cannot trace it back to
any mental or psychological cause which one could point out and
hold to。 The greatest of my gifts being a consummate capacity
for doing nothing; I cannot even point to boredom as a rational
stimulus for taking up a pen。 The pen; at any rate; was there;
and there is nothing wonderful in that。 Everybody keeps a pen
(the cold steel of our days) in his rooms; in this enlightened
age of penny stamps and halfpenny post…cards。 In fact; this was
the epoch when by means of postcard and pen Mr。 Gladstone had
made the reputation of a novel or two。 And I; too; had a pen
rolling about somewherethe seldom…used; the reluctantly
taken…up pen of a sailor ashore; the pen rugged with the dried
ink of abandoned attempts; of answers delayed longer than decency
permitted; of letters begun with infinite reluctance; and put off
suddenly till next daytill next week; as like as not! The
neglected; uncared…for pen; flung away at the slightest
provocation; and under the stress of dire necessity hunted for
without enthusiasm; in a perfunctory; grumpy worry; in the 〃Where
the devil IS the beastly thing gone to?〃 ungracious spirit。
Where; indeed! It might have been reposing behind the sofa for a
day or so。 My landlady's anemic daughter (as Ollendorff would
have expressed it); though commendably neat; had a lordly;
careless manner of approaching her domestic duties。 Or it might
even be resting delicately poised on its point by the side of the
table…leg; and when picked up show a gaping; inefficient beak
which would have discouraged any man of literary instincts。 But
not me! 〃Never mind。 This will do。〃
O days without guile! If anybody had told me then that a devoted
household; having a generally exaggerated idea of my talents and
importance; would be put into a state of tremor and flurry by the
fuss I would make because of a suspicion that somebody had
touched my sacrosanct pen of authorship; I would have never
deigned as much as the contemptuous smile of unbelief。 There are
imaginings too unlikely for any kind of notice; too wild for
indulgence itself; too absurd for a smile。 Perhaps; had that
seer of the future been a friend; I should have been secretly
saddened。 〃Alas!〃 I would have thought; looking at him with an
unmoved face; 〃the poor fellow is going mad。〃
I would have been; without doubt; saddened; for in this world
where the journalists read the signs of the sky; and the wind of
heaven itself; blowing where it listeth; does so under the
prophetical management of the meteorological office; but where
the secret of human hearts cannot be captured by prying or
praying; it was infinitely more likely that the sanest of my
friends should nurse the germ of incipient madness than that I
should turn into a writer of tales。
To survey with wonder the changes of one's own self is a
fascinating pursuit for idle hours。 The field is so wide; the
surprises so varied; the subject so full of unprofitable but
curious hints as to the work of unseen forces; that one does not
weary easily of it。 I am not speaking here of megalomaniacs who
rest uneasy under the crown of their unbounded conceitwho
really never rest in this world; and when out of it go on
fretting and fuming on the straitened circumstances of their last
habitation; where all men must lie in obscure equality。 Neither
am I thinking of those ambitious minds who; always looking
forward to some aim of aggrandizement; can spare no time for a
detached; impersonal glance upon them selves。
And that's a pity。 They are unlucky。 These two kinds; together
with the much larger band of the totally unimaginative; of those
unfortunate beings in whose empty and unseeing gaze (as a great
French writer has put it) 〃the whole universe vanishes into blank
nothingness;〃 miss; perhaps; the true task of us men whose day is
short on this earth; the abode of conflicting opinions。 The
ethical view of the universe involves us at last in so many cruel
and absurd contradictions; where the last vestiges of faith;
hope; charity; and even of reason itself; seem ready to perish;
that I have come to suspect that the aim of creation cannot be
ethical at all。 I would fondly believe that its object is purely
spectacular: a spectacle for awe; love; adoration; or hate; if
you like; but in this viewand in this view alonenever for
despair! Those visions; delicious or poignant; are a moral end
in themselves。 The rest is our affairthe laughter; the tears;
the tenderness; the indignation; the high tranquillity of a
steeled heart; the detached curiosity of a subtle mindthat's
our affair! And the unwearied self…forgetful attention to every
phase of the living universe reflected in our consciousness may
be our appointed task on this eartha task in which fate has
perhaps engaged nothing of us except our conscience; gifted with
a voice in order to bear true testimony to the visible wonder;
the haunting terror; the infinite passion; and the illimitable
serenity; to the supreme law and the abiding mystery of the
sublime spectacle。
Chi lo sa? It may be true。 In this view there is room for every
religi