a personal record-第3章

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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；　among　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



danger　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　defense　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　defense　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。



















A　PERSONAL　RECORD







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



（among　other　things）　a　descendant　of　Vikingsmight　have　hovered



with　amused　interest　over　the　docks　of　a　2；000…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　mustaches　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　gray　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　hemisphere。　　But　at　that　moment　the　mood　of　visions　and



words　was　cut　short　by　the　third　officer；　a　cheerful　and　casual



youth；　coming　in　with　a　bang　of　the　door　and　the　exclamation：



〃You've　made　it　jolly　warm　in　here。〃







It　was　warm。　　I　had　turned　on　the　steam　heater　after　placing　a



tin　under　the　leaky　water…cockfor　perhaps　you　do　not　know　that



water　will　leak　where　steam　will　not。　　I　am　not　aware　of　what　my



young　friend　had　been　doing　on　deck　all　that　morning；　but　the



hands　he　rubbed　together　vigorously　were　very　red　and　imparted　to



me　a　chilly　feeling　by　their　mere　aspect。　　He　has　remained　the



only　banjoist　of　my　acquaintance；　and　being　also　a　younger　son　of



a　retired　colonel；　the　poem　of　Mr。　Kipling；　by　a　strange



aberration　of　associated　ideas；　always　seems　to　me　to　have　been



written　with　an　exclusive　view　to　his　person。　　When　he　did　not



play　the　banjo　he　loved　to　sit　and　look　at　it。　　He　proceeded　to



this　sentimental　inspection；　and　after　meditating　a　while　over



the　strings　under　my　silent　scrutiny　inquired；　airily：







〃What　are　you　always　scribbling　there；　if　it's　fair　to　ask？〃







It　was　a　fair　enough　question；　but　I　did　not　answer　him；　and



simply　turned　the　pad　over　with　a　movement　of　instinctive



secrecy：　I　could　not　have　told　him　he　had　put　to　flight　the



psychology　of　Nina　Almayer；　her　opening　speech　of　the　tenth



chapter；　and　the　words　of　Mrs。　Almayer's　wisdom　which　were　to



follow　in　the　ominous　oncoming　of　a　tropical　night。　　I　could　not



have　told　him　that　Nina　had　said；　〃It　has　set　at　last。〃　　He　would



have　been　extremely　surprised　and　perhaps　have　dropped　his



precious　banjo。　　Neither　could　I　have　told　him　that　the　sun　of　my



sea…going　was　setting；　too；　even　as　I　wrote　the　words　expressing